


The Mutant Games

by TurtleTotem



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Charles and Erik take turns being Katniss and Peeta, F/M, Gen, M/M, Non-Violent Resistance, Raven is Prim and Rue, Revenge, Shaw is Cato and President Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:14:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 59,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"You'll be fine, darling," Charles murmured, half-asleep, into golden hair as Raven crawled sniffling into his bed. "Your name's only in there once, Raven. They're not going to pick you."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Raven portrayed here (in my head, at least) by [Morgan Lily](http://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/Morgan+Lily+Premiere+Relativity+Media+Judy+JMnCUpaztU-l.jpg), who did such a lovely job playing young!Raven in the movie.

Raven had been having nightmares about the Reaping for weeks, from the day she turned twelve. After the second time she woke the household with her screams, Mother moved Raven's cot into Charles and Cain's room.

"Your father and I already get up before dawn to start the baking," she said, snappish with exhaustion, her hands shaking. "You deal with this."

Kurt was no father of Charles's, of course, and Charles himself got up as early as either of them, stoking ovens and kneading dough as the sun rose; Cain, who was Raven's actual blood relation, and was able to sleep just a little later before his shift at the mines, was the logical choice to care for Raven. But it never occurred to either Charles or Raven that he would.

"You'll be fine, darling," Charles murmured, half-asleep, into golden hair as Raven crawled sniffling into his bed. "Your name's only in there once, Raven. They're not going to pick you."

***

The day of the Reaping, Mother and Kurt hurried to open the bakery even earlier than usual, selling bread to the crowds gathering in the Square. That left Charles to get himself and Raven washed and dressed in their finest – the same black trousers and white shirt that had seen Charles through four previous Reapings, and for Raven, a bright blue dress cut down from one of Mother's, with new-bought yellow buttons that gleamed in the early sunlight.

"Wake up, Buttercup, there's a laddie," Charles murmured, poking their phoenix into full flame. Buttercup stretched his neck grumpily, nipping at his fingers, but Charles dodged him with the ease of long practice. Phoenixes were usually sweet, gentle creatures, despite their origin as living firebombs during the War, but Buttercup was a bit of a grouch.

"Would you get that stupid mutt going? Some of us want our coffee _before_ we're dragged off to die in the Games," Cain snarled.

Charles hissed "quiet!" under his breath, but Raven had already heard. She glanced up from her cup of milk and back down again, pale and shaky.

"No one's being dragged off to the Games, Cain," Charles said, as if the idea were quite ridiculous. "It's your last year, you're practically out of it already. And Raven's only in the running once. We'll go stand around in the sun, and watch the same silly video about the Mutation Wars, and then come home and have lunch." And then bake something for free, for the families of whatever luckless children _did_ get chosen. That was a tradition his father had begun, and even Kurt didn't dare ignore it.

"But what about you?" Raven asked. "Charles, what if they pick you?"

Charles swung a pot of water over the merry blaze the phoenix was now producing, then sighed and knelt down by Raven's chair. "Raven, our family is very, very lucky. We've never had to take _tesserae._ That means our names are only in the lottery the number of times required by law, while there are others – many, many others – whose names are in two or three times that amount. The odds," he gave her a crooked smile, "are distinctly in our favor."

That won a smile, not least because Charles's accent so nearly matched that of Effie Trinket, the silly, prancing woman who drew the names and shepherded the tributes to the Capitol. Having a Capitol accent won him few enough friends in District 12 – a constant reminder that the Xaviers had been wealthy enough to send him to a Capitol school, before Father died – so he was glad to see it do some good for once.

"Will you braid my hair, Charles?" Raven asked. "It's not as pretty when I do it myself."

"I have to make breakfast, love. Cain needs his coffee, after all," Charles said with a wink, getting back to his feet.

"Pretty please?"

"Oh, I'll do it, if it'll shut you up," Cain grumbled, and Charles tried not to let his surprise show. He wouldn't have thought his stepbrother knew _how_ to braid, and anyway an affectionate gesture from Cain was considerably rarer than a blow. But he'd always been a bit softer toward Raven, very seldom hitting her, though that was partly because Charles put himself in the way whenever he tried.

Buttercup grumbled and burbled in avian displeasure, barely audible under the crackle of flame, as Charles made coffee. He wondered how Lady, Buttercup's mate, was reacting to her even earlier start in the bakery's ovens. The bakery had had some lean years, between Father's death and Mother's remarriage, and without the phoenixes to spare them the cost of firewood, there might have been _tesserae_ after all. It was Father who had tamed Lady, and taught Charles enough of the art to bring in Buttercup – though really anyone with patience and gentle hands could win them over, and plenty around the District had. The cat-sized birds were practically unkillable; it wasn't hard to tame something that knew it had nothing to fear from you.

It must be nice, Charles thought, to be a phoenix, and know that whatever threatened you, whatever hurt you, you didn't have to be afraid. You would always survive.

So when Raven panicked at the door, as they tried to leave for the Square – clutched Charles's arm with her feet rooted to the floor, gasping and wide-eyed, _What if they pick me, Charles, what if they send me to the Games,_ Charles plucked a pair of phoenix feathers off the floor and pinned them to her collar.

"These are good luck," he said. "Protection. Now you can survive anything, just like a phoenix. Okay?"

And Raven, though she was really too old to believe him, touched a hand to the feathers, and swallowed, and let herself be lead toward the Square.

***

Boys and girls were separated for the Reaping; Charles bobbed and weaved through the crowd of boys, trying to get a glimpse of Raven. Cain had already friends to stand with, boys who were like him, tall and strong and mean, with coal-dust in the swirls of their fingerprints. Charles had no one in particular to stand beside – his classmates had never quite grown used to him again, after his return from the Capitol school – but they didn’t exactly dislike him either. When, after failing to find Raven in the crowd, Charles reluctantly took a place between Rory Hawthorne and one of the Undersee boys, they gave him nervous smiles and nods of solidarity.

Their district escort, Effie Trinket, minced up onto the stage, and the annual pageant began.

_“During the Mutation Wars, thirteen districts rebelled against their government using unnatural powers given by the misuse of technology…”_

By now Charles could nearly recite along with the video. He barely listened, still craning his head to see into the girls’ side. Had Raven found a friend to stand with, was she afraid, was she crying – surely it would help her to see him, if he could find her—

_“—The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future.”_

Charles’s attention focused belatedly on Effie Trinket as the video ended.

"Ladies first," she chirped, and swirled her hand through the glass globe of names. Chose one and lifted it.

"Raven Marko."


	2. Tokens

Watching the Reaping was mandatory for all citizens of Panem. Even those who had been Reaped already.

Erik sat on the bed in his train compartment, speeding inexorably toward the Capitol, his token – a two-headed silver coin – flipping idly through his fingers, and watched the large screen against the wall, showing the last of the Districts pay its annual sacrifice to the dragon.

Raven Marko. He couldn't stifle a wince as the cameras found her face; she looked closer to ten than twelve, a tiny blonde in braids, her face gone white and still as a china doll. He'd been told that even in the Capitol, people hated seeing tributes so young. Erik supposed it made it harder for them to pretend the Games were glamorous and exciting, an honor to be treasured. He hoped every one of them had nightmares about that tiny china-doll face.

And hoped, very quietly, that he wasn't the one who'd have to kill her.

The girl swallowed as her peers subtly drew away from her, wearing the mingled shock, dismay, and guilty relief that followed everyone home from the Reaping. She pressed a hand to a pair of coppery-scarlet feathers pinned to her collar, and began walking toward the stage.

_"Raven!"_

A dark-haired boy, some years older, had broken free of the ranks on the boys' side, ran to the girl before the Peacekeepers could catch up, and threw his arms around her. "No – Raven, no, you can't—" It was hard to make out any words after that, boy and girl – brother and sister? – both crying and shouting over each other. Erik clutched his coin hard.

A Peacekeeper grabbed the boy's arm, another the girl's, and tried to pull them away from each other – one back to the ranks, the other to the stage.

"I volunteer!" the boy screamed. "I volunteer to go in her place!"

There was silence for a long minute, all eyes (and the camera) turning toward the District Escort, a ridiculous woman with poofy pink hair and a heart painted on her lips.

"That's terribly generous of you," the escort said, sounding a little shaken. "But I'm afraid that's quite against the rules, Mr...?"

"Xavier. Charles Xavier. She's my sister. Please, you have to let me."

"The rules are very clear, Mr. Xavier. Each District must have one male and one female tribute. A boy cannot take the place of a girl."

Another long silence, and Erik had to look away from the black despair in the boy's bright blue eyes. The other Peacekeeper began pulling the girl toward the stage again.

"Wait!" the boy shouted, fighting loose from his Peacekeeper's hold. "Then let me go with her. I'll be the other tribute. I'll go with her."

"Very well," the escort said, her face brightening. "Yes, that will do nicely! Come up here with me, then, come along! Well, this is just wonderful, isn't it? A brother and sister team! A Mutant Games family event!"

Brother and sister ascended the stage together, hand in hand, tear-streaked and trembling, hardly looking away from each other.

The Capitol would lap it up, Erik admitted. If you made a good story, you'd get a certain amount of sponsors, no matter how bad your actual chances. But their chances were _bad._ The girl was a lost cause, and her brother would only go down with her. It was stupid of him to volunteer; there was nothing he could do to save someone that helpless. He'd only guaranteed his own death in addition to hers.

Of course, he could say little enough about the stupidity of volunteers, being one himself. But he had his own reasons, and they had nothing to do with sentimental idiocy.

As he watched them stand on the stage together, though, watched the boy's eyes burn with desperate determination, he made a note to himself that it might not do to underestimate the sentimental idiot.

***

Charles almost wished they could be whisked away without saying goodbye to anyone. It seemed more cruel than kind, to let Mother cry and clutch her little girl, knowing it was the last time she'd ever hold her.

It wouldn't be, though, Charles corrected himself. Because he was going to protect Raven, and get her back home.

Kurt looked a decade older than he had this morning, reaching out to touch Raven's hair as she and Mother clung to each other.

"Take care of Mother," Charles said.

Kurt nodded slowly, gravely. "Take care of Raven."

"You know I will."

That seemed all there was to say; Charles might have tried to love his stepfather once, but those days were long past, and the favor had never been returned. Right now it was enough for Charles that Kurt loved his wife and daughter.

Charles turned to Cain, who looked awkwardly down at his shoes. "I suppose you'll get the bakery after all. No more mining."

Cain said nothing, and Charles wondered if he was ashamed – of how much he'd always wanted Charles gone, of Charles being the one to volunteer for Cain's sister.

"Thank you for braiding Raven's hair this morning," Charles said, somewhat inanely. "It looks beautiful. I never knew you could do that."

Cain swallowed heavily. "You got to hit back, okay? In the arena. You never hit me back. That won't fly in the arena. They'll kill you. And then they'll kill Raven."

"I know," Charles said, and it was his turn to swallow, terror and nausea and horrifying self-doubt. He didn't mind dying for Raven. Could he kill for Raven?

Then Mother was pulling him in close, wetting his shoulder with tears, and Charles clung back as he had seldom done since his father's death, since Mother had become a faint-voiced phantom haunting the corners, leaving her 10-year-old son and the charity of neighbors to keep them alive until she could find another husband to prop herself against.

None of that seemed to matter now. She was his mother. Charles closed his eyes and hugged back as hard as he could.

"Your father would be so proud of you," she whispered, and Charles's throat tightened until he couldn't breathe.

When they were gone, Raven wiped her tears (a futile exercise, as they continued silently flowing) and took one of the feathers off her dress.

"One for you," she said. "We're allowed to take one token from home. This can be ours. For good luck. To keep us safe."

Charles almost laughed, but he was afraid if he started he might not stop. So he took the feather with grave solemnity and pinned it to his shirt. "To keep us safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a tribute guide with everybody's district and age [here](http://turtletotem.livejournal.com/5939.html).


	3. Mentors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character I've named Greta is the same girl tribute District 8 had in canon -- [this girl](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1cihb7Lof1r9dhsqo1_500.jpg).

Charles knew who Logan was, of course; the only living victor from District 12 was supposed to be present at every Reaping, but last year he had been drunk enough to stagger off the platform and break his leg. When he didn't see him this year, Charles had thought perhaps the man was banned or something.

It turned out he was simply too drunk to even stagger.

When Charles and Raven boarded the train, they found him sprawled on a couch just beyond the little table of refreshments, reeking of alcohol. Effie stomped over to him, berating shrilly; Logan snarled back under his breath and pulled a cushion over his head.

Charles felt chilled. This was their mentor, the man who was supposed to advise them and gather their sponsors. Without him, they surely stood no chance at all.

Raven didn't appear to notice Logan. "Food," she whispered, tugging Charles toward the refreshments. Their family might be luckier than most, but no one in District 12 turned down free food.

_It's not free,_ Charles thought, _we'll probably pay for it with our lives,_ but he still picked up the nearest item, a fruit tart. Oh, it was heavenly. He seldom got to taste the bakery's wares unless they were stale or burned; anything good enough to sell was sold. Now he understood why fruit tarts sold so well, even when they were technically a luxury item. He stifled a whimper and reached for another one, stuffing the whole thing in his mouth.

"Look at them," Logan growled, and Charles realized he was standing now, leaning heavily against the back of a chair. "Half-starved little Seam rats, just like last year, won't make it an _hour,_ it don't matter what I do—"

"Well, you certainly won't know unless you try," Effie said primly. "Now I'm going to change into my travel clothes. When I get back, I expect you to be presentable."

Charles and Logan stared at each other as Effie stomped out of the room – car? whatever they were in. Logan was shorter in person than Charles had expected him to be, and his hair and clothes were greasy and unkempt. But he still looked powerful, like a bulldog. Charles tried to remember what his mutation had been, in the Games.

The man glanced from Charles to Raven – still steadily picking her way through the food, sunlight through the train window gleaming on her yellow buttons and golden braids -- and began swearing steadily, closing his eyes as if the light hurt. Charles covered Raven's ears until he stopped.

"—devil take you both, are either of you more than twelve?"

"I'm sixteen," Charles said indignantly. He was short for his age, and he'd been called baby-faced before, but he didn't look _twelve._

"An hour," Logan growled into his hand, scrubbing at his face. "At best." He stumbled out of the car.

"You don't have to cover my ears, Charles, I've heard swearing before," Raven said. "What's it going to matter when we're both dead?" She licked pink frosting off her finger and reached for another cupcake.

***

District 8 had two living victors, Cecelia and Woof, and their longstanding arrangement, apparently, was that Cecelia mentored the girl tribute, and Woof the boy.

Woof was in his seventies, and spent a lot of time either staring out the window or putting random objects in his mouth. It had been over a decade since a boy from 8 survived long enough for his mutation to kick in.

"You are not my responsibility," Cecelia said through the door, when Erik knocked on her train compartment. "Talk to Woof."

"I don't want to die, Cecelia."

"You are not my responsibility!" she said again, higher and shakier. "I can't – I have to focus on Greta, I can only – Anyway, you volunteered! You knew what you were getting into, that's not my fault! My duty is to Greta, not to you!"

"And nine years ago, your duty was to Edie."

Silence.

"You were a good mentor to her," Erik said.

A barely audible mutter. "For all that it mattered, in the end."

"It might matter for me."

Another silence.

"I know you cared about Edie," Erik said. "That's your whole problem, caring too much. Edie was worse than most, because she came so close to making it. Don't you think she would want her little brother to have the best chance he can?"

"You volunteered," Cecelia spat. "Is that what Edie would want?"

There was nothing Erik could say to that.

"Go talk to Woof," Cecelia said. "He's not as senile as he makes out. You're his responsibility, not mine."

Erik clamped down on the urge to bang his fists against the door, to shout and crash and force her to come out and talk to him. There was time, still, to bring her around. Yes, every hour brought him closer to the arena, but he wouldn’t panic. He was stronger than that.

Only when he turned away from the door did he see his fellow tribute, Greta, at the other end of the car. Eight was one of the more heavily populated districts, so he'd never seen Greta before the Reaping. He knew she was fourteen, a sturdy-looking girl with frizzy red curls and a strong face. And that was all he wanted to know.

She opened her mouth to speak to him, but he turned and hurried away.

***

The train had been moving for hours before they saw Logan again, looking significantly cleaner but no happier.

"Effie says you really are sixteen," Logan said, pouring himself some coffee.

Charles set aside the little board game he and Raven had found in a cabinet and made up their own rules for. "Yes."

Logan gulped his coffee and glared at them both like their presence was a personal insult. "Why'd you come with her, kid? There can only be one winner. What if it comes down to you and her?"

"Then she'll win," Charles said steadily.

Raven frowned. "Maybe it won't matter, if we're from the same district. After all, what difference would it make then?"

"That's the rules, girlie. It's happened before, come down to the boy and girl from the same district, and the Gamemakers let them fight it out without blinking. But apparently your big brother's already got a plan in place for that." He watched Charles over the rim of his cup. "If that's the way you want to play it, we can work with that."

"No," Raven said. "No, Charles isn't gonna die, Charles tell him—"

"There's two ways to get sponsors," Logan said, cutting her off. "Show competence or win sympathy. You've got a good shot at both. We play baby sis as the fragile flower, big bro as the capable protector. Double whammy. You understand, your chances are still abysmal."

"Our mutations could make all the difference," Charles pointed out. "If Raven gets a powerful mutation..."

"Sure. Could be. Or it might be something useless, and there's always that one or two that don't react to the mutagen at all. _And_ you gotta survive the first twelve hours before it even starts to kick in." He set down the coffee and lit a cigar. "You're not fighters, either of you."

"I'm stronger than I look," Charles said.

"Maybe, but you've got no training. The tributes from District 1, 2, 4 – they've been holding a sword since they could walk. Unless you really luck out with the mutations, you got nothing. So you hide. That's your strategy. You hole up somewhere and wait for the rest to kill each other off."

"Is that how you won?" Charles asked skeptically.

Logan laughed bitterly around his cigar. "Too young to remember, ain'tcha? I had a healing mutation. Cannon went off for me twice before they caught on. I couldn't help but win. Wish I still had it, my lungs and liver might be in better shape – but my point is, you won't be that lucky."

"We might," Raven said. "We might be that lucky."

And if they were? If Charles's mutation made him unkillable, and then it came down to only him and Raven? That seemed like exactly the sort of thing the Gamemakers would do. In theory, of course, the Gamemakers had no control over tributes' mutations – each body reacted to the mutagen in its own way, no one could predict it. But no one in District 12 entirely believed anything the Capitol said.

"You gotta be ready to play your parts from the minute we pull into the station," Logan said. "Chuck, you're the fierce protector. Not much of an act, I think. Yours, girlie, will be trickier. No one likes a frowny face. You gotta make 'em love you, be so cute and pretty and happy that they just can't bear to think of you not making it."

_"Happy?"_

"Happy," Logan repeated firmly. "This is a _game,_ sweetheart. For all those people," he gestured out the window toward the approaching station; even from here they could see it was packed, "for them, it's a game. You remind them it isn't, you try to prick their consciences, they'll turn on you. They don't want to be reminded. You've got to play the game, sweetheart."

"My name is Raven," she said stiffly. "And his is Charles."

He grinned. “You make _them_ remember your name, you make them see you as more than 'the girl from 12,' and maybe you'll get somewhere."

They pulled into the station, then, people crowding up against the barriers – Capitol people, strangely terrifying in their clouds of glitter and gloss and unnatural color. Effie hurried into the car and arranged them in front of the door.

"Remember," Logan said, dropping back behind them, "you're happy to be here."

Charles took Raven's hand, tried to force a smile onto his face. Raven, on the other hand, took a deep breath and closed her eyes, and when she opened them, his terrified little sister was gone. In her place stood a sunny, smiling young lady with no trace of fear under her curiosity and excitement. The only hint of the truth was the strength of her grip on Charles's hand.

"Maybe two hours," Logan muttered, as they stepped out into the crowd.


	4. Appearances

They didn't show this part, usually – the part where tributes got their skin scrubbed off and their clothes carted away like biological waste, the part where more-than-usually-ridiculous Capitol people peered and poked and evaluated their bodies and faces and hair like they were up for auction. More than once, Raven slapped someone's hand away, nostrils flaring; Charles touched her shoulder.

"They don't mean any harm," he murmured. "I think they're trying to help us, in their own way." To be honest, he found them amusing, chattering away like brightly-colored birds; most of them seemed struck with pity rather than disgust at he and Raven's 'primitive' condition, cooing over how hard their lives must be and delighted with Charles's Capitol accent.

"Don't touch that!" Raven cried, darting forward to snatch her dress away from one of the bird-people, who was picking at the phoenix feather. "Or his, either! That's our tokens!"

They understood tokens, it seemed; the chatter turned thoughtful and curious, the fingers careful.

"You darlings just wait here," one of the birds said as they filed out the door. "Oliver will be right with you."

Charles and Raven barely had time to exchange bewildered glances, huddling naked behind thin white sheets, before the door opened again.

"My name is Oliver," said the man who entered. "I'm your stylist, and I'm going to do everything I can to help you." He was a short man, rather fat, with a broad, plain, kind-looking face; in direct contrast to the bright and chirpy prep team, he spoke softly and was dressed all in black. Charles didn't think he could look any less like a Capitol stylist, really, but then, they were from District 12. They probably didn't get the pick of the litter. He found he was inclined to like the man anyway, just for being plain and quiet – especially when he absently handed them each a white dressing gown.

"I've been consulting with your mentor," Oliver said, "about your strategy and how to build it. I think we have some good ideas. I realize that where you're from, appearances don't count for much. Unfortunately, they count for a very great deal here, and disdaining those possible advantages will only hurt you. Will you trust me to help you?"

Charles was surprised and mortified to find himself on the edge of tears. He hadn't expected anyone in the Capitol to be understanding or gentle, or ask their consent in anything. He almost wished Oliver hadn't; it was bringing him closer to breaking down than all Logan's hopeless snarling or Effie Trinket's frivolity, and he couldn't break down in front of Raven.

"We don't have much choice than to trust you, really," he pointed out.

Oliver shrugged. "I'll get you another stylist, if you like." He smiled crookedly. "But they wouldn't be as good as me."

"Hey, our feathers!" Raven cried, and reached out for the two scraps of brilliant red Charles hadn't noticed in Oliver's hand.

"Yes, I found your choice of token intriguing. It works rather well with my idea for your costumes."

"Costumes?"

"For the Parade, the chariot ride into the training center."

"Ah, right." Charles felt slightly nauseous. Tributes' chariot costumes were supposed to symbolize their District. This had seldom gone well for District 12, with its focus on coal mining.

Raven gritted her teeth. "I am not going out there in nothing but coal dust. You can't make me."

"That one was before my time," Oliver said primly, "and not, I assure you, my style at all. No, what I have in mind is much more dramatic. Poetic, even. After all, why is coal important?" He held up the phoenix feathers, twirled them so that for the briefest moment, they looked like a dancing flame. "It burns."

***

The commentators all agreed it was a good Parade. District 1, Luxury Items, never a disappointment, was resplendent in white silk and diamonds; District 2, Weaponry, made it clear they meant business in Roman gladiator attire; District 4, Fishing, featured yards of blue-green fabric whipping in the wind, like a storm at sea; even District 3's rather difficult Electronics theme, with its buttons and wires, came out better than usual, and District 6, Transportation, did something new with maps that was a great improvement over last year's thing with the wheels.

There were failures, of course – Caesar Flickerman bemoaned that nobody ever knew what to do with District 11, Livestock, and this year's shepherds with robes and curved staffs were only a little less silly-looking than last year's long-horned cows. District 8's Peacekeeper uniforms were a fine concept – it was about time someone did that, really, the district's vast textile factories did clothe all of Panem's beloved Peacekeepers – but the way the boy tribute kept pulling at his collar, looking some off-putting combination of enraged and sick to his stomach, somewhat ruined the effect.

But, all other triumphs and disappointments aside, the star ensemble was unanimously declared to be that of District 12 – the pretty brother and sister, holding hands and wreathed in flame.

"Really, really quite impressive," Flickerman assured his co-host, "especially considering their District's lackluster history in that department, a real coup for the new District Stylist, Oliver. The tributes of District 12, Charles and Raven, have already attracted a lot of attention with their very dramatic Reaping – obviously they’re going to be something special. I can't wait to interview those two. Charles and Raven of District 12, we welcome you to the 74th Annual Mutant Games!"


	5. Training

The Tribute Training Center was a surprisingly quiet place, considering it was full of people learning how to kill each other. Of course, Erik reflected, it was an odd situation for small talk. It was hard for any attempt at friendliness not to smack of deceit, when they all knew it would be every tribute for himself in the arena. Exceptions included, of course, the brother and sister from 12, who never left each other’s sides – and the Careers.

Erik spent most of the morning watching the Careers, tucked away at the weightlifting station. District 4 didn't always throw in with 1 and 2, and he was tempted to think this year’s girl would have preferred not to; she hung back from the others, didn't laugh at most of their jokes. But that hardly made her less of a threat; she'd obviously been trained as well as any of them, and her striking looks would do as much as her training to win sponsors – she was as dark as the boy from 11, but with startling white hair that stood up like the crest on a centurion's helmet.

Her district partner was dramatic-looking, too, all long hair and flashing dark eyes; Erik had yet to hear him speak, but one of the others had called him Janos. From District 2 came Clove (a freckled little thing with an unhinged viciousness to her), and Azazel, (who was old enough to have a bit of beard, and the coldest blue eyes Erik had ever seen). _Azazel,_ honestly – the closer one got to the Capitol, the sillier people's names. Usually the theme was either luxury or strength; he supposed naming your child after a demon indicated _some_ variety of strength, and he'd never argue against a Career tribute being hell-born.

And then there was District 1, the ringleaders, the Careers' Careers – a girl named Frost, an icy-looking blonde with her training uniform unzipped several inches down the front, and of course, Sebastian Shaw, Jr.

It had been a grand scandal, of course, President Shaw's son volunteering for the Games. Children from the Capitol did not compete, but Sebastian the Younger had been raised by his mother in District 1. President Shaw had already given a brief interview, expressing pride in his son's courage and complete confidence that he would make his district proud and come home to enjoy the glory of victory.

For most tributes, Erik was sure Sebastian’s presence felt like a death knell. After all, if the Gamemakers were half as deep in the President's pocket as everyone thought, they'd be slanting things Sebastian's way from the first moment. To Erik, it felt like a sign, melting any doubt he’d felt about his plan. It was _perfect,_ the perfect revenge. 

Was President Shaw afraid for his son, in some dark corner of his heart? Or did he really believe himself invincible, undefeatable even by proxy? Erik couldn't decide which reaction would be more satisfying to see on the President's face, when he had to place the victor's crown on the head of the District 8 tenement-rat who killed his precious spawn. Either way he'd wear the expression only briefly, before Erik sent him on to join his son.

If Sebastian had been a frightened kid, an unlucky name in a glass bowl, it might be different – not that that would ever have happened, whatever the law said. But Sebastian had volunteered, had trained extensively for this, wanted nothing more than the _glory and honor_ of slaughtering 12-year-olds and winning extra rations for the district that needed it least. Shaws Junior and Senior were virtually identical in face, in name, and clearly in character; it was fitting that they share an identical fate at Erik's hands.

Even now Shaw was laughing and playing with Frost, Azazel, and the others – _playing,_ smiling and easy as a boy shooting marbles with his friends outside a tenement, as he pointed a sword toward the little girl from 12 and mimed disemboweling her with it, complete with death cries in falsetto.

_We'll see how hard you blubber when there's a sword in you,_ Erik thought, and shifted to work a different muscle group.

 

When Clove eventually moved away from the throwing-knife station, Erik took her place. Knives were common enough in the tenements, but they were usually pieced together from broken scraps and slipped between ribs in dark alleys. Having well-balanced weapons that could kill from yards away was a novel experience, but useful only if he could pick up the knack of it in three days' training. For several minutes he focused all his attention on getting a feel for the knives.

He lost that focus, attention snapping sideways, when Sebastian decided to elbow through the crowd and grab an axe from the nearby weapons station. Grinning widely, he shoved Charles and the little sister when they didn't make room fast enough.

"Sorry, were you in my way?" he said, and shoved Charles one more time before sauntering off, swinging the axe onto his shoulder so that two other tributes had to dodge.

The girl tripped him. Erik hoped he was the only one to get such a clear look at her little foot darting out to catch Shaw’s ankle. He couldn’t help grinning; the flower wasn’t as delicate as she looked, after all.

Shaw nearly fell on his own axe, then whirled, snarling at the nearest tributes. One, the freckle-faced ginger boy from 6, made the mistake of laughing.

“I’ll teach you to laugh at me, you worthless piece of—”

It happened almost too quickly for Erik to follow, Shaw lunging at the boy with axe in hand, Charles throwing him off course with a solid punch out of nowhere – in the ensuing scuffle the axe fell with a clang, Shaw’s nose broke with an audible crunch, and Charles was thrown down onto his knees, yelping in pain when Shaw yanked his head back by the hair.

The trainers had begun moving the moment Shaw raised his voice, and now they pulled the two boys away from each other, barking reprimands. Blood gushed down Shaw’s face and trickled from Charles’s split lip. Everyone watched wide-eyed as the trainers examined both tributes’ injuries, dragged Shaw off to the infirmary and ordered Charles to report there after his day’s training.

With Shaw gone, the trainers scattered again; Charles stood dabbing at his lip, his sister and the ginger boy hovering at his side, all three of them sneaking uneasy glances at the other Careers, who glared darkly from the other side of the room.

Erik stood frozen, stunned and bewildered by the boy's idiocy. Why in the world would he step in like that to protect a stranger? For his sister, Erik would have understood. But Charles didn’t even know the boy from 6, surely hadn’t had time to form an alliance with him. Perhaps he felt responsible because it was his sister’s mischief that had gotten the boy in trouble, but that was misplaced guilt at best. Perhaps he’d _wanted_ to take on a Career, show his mettle. He’d done that, to be sure; no one would forget Shaw’s broken nose in a hurry. But he hadn’t exactly won the encounter, and now all the Careers would be targeting him, for showing up one of their pack.

It seemed he’d won an ally, at least, Erik reflected as the boy from 6 followed the brother and sister to their next training station. Whether the timid freckled kid was an ally worth having was another question; it was obvious Shaw would have utterly flattened him, without Charles's intervention.

It wasn’t possible that Charles had intervened solely because he knew the other boy needed protection. People didn’t do that kind of thing, least of all in the Games.

*** 

"That was a really dumb thing to do." The boy from 6 – Sean – still looked a little shaken as the knot instructor walked Raven through a half-hitch knot.

"Yeah, probably." Charles gave a sheepish smile, as best he could without splitting his lip further.

"Why'd you do it? We're not friends."

"We're not enemies, either." Charles couldn't even say why he'd done it, really. It just seemed the obviously right thing to do. Sean was smaller, younger, weaker than himself; of course it was Charles's place to protect him.

"Not enemies? This is the Mutant Games, dude. We're _all_ enemies."

Charles shifted his weight. "Not until we’re in the arena, at least, surely."

"Pretty sure you've won yourself a few enemies right here and now," Sean said, nodding toward Frost and Azazel, who were giving them wolf-like stares.

Raven snorted, without looking up from her knots. "They bleed as red as anybody. We just saw proof."

Charles barely heard her; he'd just realized quite a few tributes other than the Careers were looking their direction. The boy from 7, who had spiky, obviously-bleached hair and was having a bit too much fun starting a fire, grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. At the camouflage station, painting leaves across their brown skins, the tributes from 11 were also watching him. The girl gave him a grudging nod of respect; the boy, taller and darker, flashed a smile. Even the grim boy from 8 was watching them intently – not smiling, but not hostile, either.

_Surely we don't all have to be enemies._

***

The tributes all ate together in the dining hall attached to the gym; this was usually where alliances were forged, though more likely in a day or two, when everyone had had a chance to evaluate each other's competence. Erik sat down alone, and though he didn't quite have the heart to run Greta off when she sat across from him, he didn't spare her a glance either. He'd leave Greta alone in the arena, as long as she did the same; he'd have done that much for a fellow tennie-rat even if it weren't considered poor form for District-mates to turn on each other. But he couldn't offer an alliance. Such things were always tricky and fragile, a dance of sentimentality and paranoia, even – or especially – the Careers. Erik couldn't risk the distraction, couldn’t let anything get in the way of his goal.

The Careers had their own table, of course, and most others sat in scattered ones and twos. As the meal progressed, however, Erik couldn't avoid noticing that more and more tributes were drifting toward one particular table – specifically, toward Charles Xavier.

Charles and his sister had sat down with the freckled ginger, and his District partner, a black-haired girl with the Capitol-worthy name of Jubilee. A conversation about District 12's phoenix feather tokens and the animals they came from had drawn in the boy from 3 (a gangly 14-year-old with glasses and a bit of a stammer), and then the girls from 9 and 10, and before anyone knew it Charles seemed to be presiding over some manner of natural science class, giving an enthusiastic lesson on the various wonders and habits of the domesticated phoenix.

"—engineered as vehicles for sabotage, during the Wars – the whole bursting into flame thing – but see, the Capitol designed them to survive that, the better to strike again later. It turns out that if they're badly hurt, it _triggers_ them to burst into flame, and they come out of it as good as new."

He was a very engaging speaker, Erik admitted grudgingly, with expansive hand-gestures and a very mobile face, and the Reaping video had done no justice to the startling blue of his eyes. He'd do well when interviews came. Really, he was nearly as pretty as his little sister, and his blue-and-gold training uniform clung to a slim, supple figure. It wasn't the look most male tributes cultivated, but if his stylist couldn't do _something_ with it, he had to be blind. Which he wasn't; the flaming leotards had done as much as the feather tokens to get people calling them the Phoenixes of District 12. Not a bad start, getting yourself associated with immortality right out of the gate.

"Apparently the Capitol didn't really think it through," Charles continued, "because when the war was over, every phoenix they'd ever made was still alive. They couldn't be killed, and wouldn't let themselves be caught, so the Capitol had to just give up and leave them. They don't seem to reproduce, but what does it matter? It’s unlikely they’ll ever die out. The Capitol managed to make something that just might outlive it."

Erik shifted uncomfortably – how stupid was the boy, saying things like that, right here in the heart of the Capitol? The Gamemakers were watching every second, and if Charles thought they wouldn't stoop to punishing him in the arena, he was more naïve than he looked.

 

After lunch, the Careers moved to the Gauntlet, and the 'science class' tributes took over the weapons stations. Erik thought he probably ought to be watching the Careers, but it wouldn't do to forget the other seventeen tributes he'd be competing against, nor would it hurt to do more intensive training himself. So he wandered over to the knives, keeping half his attention on the trainer, the other half on Charles and Raven.

"Logan said to focus on survival training," Charles murmured as his sister tried to hand him a spear.

"Yeah, yeah," she replied. "Hide and wait. That doesn't mean we have to be helpless, though. After all, what if someone finds our hiding place?" The trainer started showing Raven how to hold the spear.

Hide and wait – not a bad strategy, in their case, but one that depended on not attracting attention. Charles had been terrible at that so far. Raven was doing better, Erik thought. Bouncing pigtails, the way she smiled vaguely at everyone and pranced a bit when she walked – she was playing up the 'harmless baby' angle, hoping to be underestimated. Erik had already seen she was more spirited than that, but he doubted it would actually help her much in the arena.

Charles was working with the sword trainer now, slashing and lunging with a _gladius._ It was obvious he'd never held a weapon before, but all the same, he moved with more strength and grace than he’d expect from such a soft-looking kid.

Probably shouldn't think of him as a kid, Erik decided. According to Flickerman's commentary, Charles was only a little younger than Erik; small-built, certainly, but that could be an advantage. Edie had proven that.

Edie. Erik touched the coin in his pocket. He was here to avenge his sister, and for that to happen, every other tribute in this room would have to die. Even the fiery little pigtailed girl. Even her sentimental protective brother with the cheerful science lessons. Everyone. He had to remember that.


	6. The Pool

On the second day of training, the tributes found the pool.

It was relatively new, Charles guessed, installed after the disastrous Games a few years ago where two-thirds of the tributes drowned on the first day. No one wanted that to happen again; it didn't make for a good show. The pool was an optional training station, but most of the tributes hurried to change into the swimming uniforms provided (knee-length, close-fitting trunks for the boys, one-piece suits for the girls) and jumped in immediately.

There were several trainers ready to teach everyone how to float, swim, dive, and hold their breath, but they were far outnumbered. The ones waiting for their turn began splashing around in the shallows.

"I suppose there's not much they can teach _you,"_ Charles said to the girl from District 4, who was taking care to keep her tall crest of white hair out of the water. She gave him a startled look, and he was already regretting opening his mouth to a Career – but then her expression changed to a surprisingly shy smile.

"I've been swimming since before I could walk," she admitted. "You?"

"Just a bit. A friend's father took us to the lake, once or twice." He'd better not mention that the lake in question was outside the fence. "Raven's never done it before, if you can believe it." He raised an eyebrow, watching as one of the trainers called for Raven to slow down, come back, let him finish.

The girl chuckled. "That girl is fearless. She won’t be the easy pickings Sebastian and Frost think."

Charles felt the smile slide off his face.

"I didn't mean," the girl said, but didn't seem to know how to finish the sentence. She looked down at her hand, playing idly through the water.

"Did you volunteer?" Charles asked after a moment.

"Yes. And no." She didn't look up, just kept smoothing her hand back and forth over the surface of the water. "There's still a lottery, you know, at the combat training schools. They draw from among the volunteers. I could have told them to take my name out, but the others would have called me a coward." Finally she looked at him again. "You volunteered for a _reason._ Good for you."

Not sure how to react to this, Charles said only, "You know my name, but I haven't caught yours."

"Ororo."

"Ororo. It's lovely to meet you." He held out his hand. Her eyebrows climbed, but she took it. "Since you already know how to swim, and our trainers seem a bit overwhelmed, would you mind giving the rest of us a few pointers while we wait?"

Her eyebrows rose even higher, but after a moment, to Charles's surprise, she said, "Sure."

 

They'd been in the pool almost an hour, long enough for Ororo to teach the breaststroke and the starfish float to him, Jean, Sean, and Hank, when Charles noticed the boy from District 8 watching him.

It wasn't the first time. He'd turned around several times the day before and found the boy from 8 – Erik? He thought his name was Erik – in his peripheral vision, glancing casually away as soon as he saw Charles looking back. He'd made no hostile moves; in fact, he seemed determined to make no social moves at all. He trained alone and in silence, watching the other tributes intently, in a manner that seemed less predatory than just grimly determined. Charles couldn't blame him for that, he supposed. Like everyone else, he wanted to be the one that lived to go home.

Right now he was hanging back from the edge of the pool, wearing his swim trunks but showing no sign of getting in. Dear goodness, but he was a... well-built individual. Charles swallowed and looked away.

Cain had pounded him more than once for being a pansy. It had taken Charles some time to even realize that was a reference, not just to being weak and soft, but to liking other boys instead of girls. Charles had hotly denied it, back when he bothered trying to argue with Cain, but all right, maybe he had found the occasional muscular chest rather compelling, while no particular girl had ever caught his eye – what of it?

Especially here. He would never see Cain again. Was there any reason at all not to appreciate a good view of the boy from 8?

So he continued shooting glances under his eyelashes, as swim training continued, and forbade himself to blush, even when Erik caught him at it. Though he suspected he blushed anyway – and rather thought Erik did, too.

Everyone eventually had their turn with the trainers, but few of the tributes showed any desire to get out of the pool. A few were swimming laps, practicing what they'd been taught, but most were just... playing. Having fun. This, Charles realized, was the only training station that they could pretend wasn't for training at all. Here, for a little while, everyone could forget what was happening to them. And everyone wanted to forget. Maybe even the Careers.

"Who wants to play 'Red Light, Green Light'?" he shouted, and every eye in the room turned to him.

He would think of it later as the moment everything shifted.

It wasn't obvious, then. It just seemed like a few hours of kids playing in the pool. If they followed his lead more compliantly than he expected, that might not mean anything. If playing together, everyone eager to share the games familiar in their Districts, resulted in more positive tribute interaction than Charles had ever seen in his life, well, it wouldn't mean much in the arena, would it?

But what if it did. Charles looked around at the laughing faces that couldn't be numbers to him anymore, but had become Sean, Greta, Alex, Angel, Darwin, Jean, Jubilee, Hank, Ororo, Moira, even Frost and Azazel... He couldn't imagine trying to kill any of them. What if they all felt that way? What if they all just... refused to do it?

For some reason he looked toward Erik, who had unbent enough to dangle his legs in the water, flipping something shiny through his fingers. He still, as far as Charles knew, had not spoken to anyone, or cracked a smile even once. Their eyes met, and for once neither of them looked away. Charles felt a jolt up his spine – pleasure or fear?

He swam closer to Erik, gripped the edge of the pool – not _too_ close to the other boy. He didn’t want to scare him off. “Come on in, then, Erik. I promise I won’t let you drown.”

Erik started, perhaps surprised that Charles knew his name, and pulled his legs up out of the water.

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Charles tried to laugh instead of feeling stung.

“What are you trying to do?” Erik’s voice was low and furious. “Acting like we’re all friends here to play _games._ Are you crazy or just an idiot? Or is this part of some deeper strategy?”

“Strategy? No, nothing like that!”

“Why are you even talking to me?”

“I just… You looked… You were over here all alone—”

“Maybe I like being alone.” He pushed to his feet.

Charles touched his ankle, and Erik froze. “You know, Erik, there really are people in the world who are just… kind to each other. For no reason at all.”

Erik gave him an irritated look. “There’s also a jolly elf who brings free toys to the good little children.” He shook off Charles’s hand and stalked away.

 

  
Evening came, and the pool began to clear out, tributes scattering to their dinners or private training with their mentors. Charles let Raven drag him to the camouflage station – they had both proven rather adept at that, which Charles attributed to hours spent decorating cakes. Raven definitely had the edge on him; she could pile what looked like random clumps of paint onto her skin, then step up against one of the provided trees and _vanish,_ nothing but a training uniform floating in the air. The trainer had laughed and called her a shapeshifter.

They were both swirling through paints with their fingers, trying to match the brickwork texture the trainer had given them, when Charles heard voices off to the side, pitched just loud enough for him to hear.

"Daww, look at the little babies playing in the fingerpaint." That was Sebastian Shaw. “Isn’t it cute how they think that might help? I suppose it’s kinder to let them think they have a chance.”

“Sorry, who broke whose nose?” Raven snapped, and Charles gripped her wrist hard.

The Careers – minus Sebastian – seemed delighted by her response. “What a fiery little thing,” Frost crowed. “Only fitting for a phoenix, but I’ll be honest, they both look more like ducklings to me.”

Sebastian meandered in closer; Charles kept his spine straight and did not give ground, nor look up from his work.

“You should use that paint,” said the boy from 2, Azazel, “to make a sign. ‘Will work for sponsors.’ Someone might take pity on you.”

“I might even take pity on you.” Sebastian leaned in close to his ear. “Give the ducklings a quick death. Just hang around the Cornucopia, you'll see how merciful I can be. Might even do you first, big brother, so you don't have to watch the baby die. Slice her Achilles tendons first, of course, so she can't run while we're busy with you – but don't worry, baby, it won't hurt for long—"

Raven's hands were curling into fists, red paint oozing between her fingers. Charles touched her arm. “Come on, Raven, let’s go.”

“You think you can walk away from me?” Sebastian dug fingers into Charles’s shoulder, whipped him back around. Charles looked to the camouflage trainer – but she was looking steadfastly at the floor. Ah. Bribed or blackmailed? 

“You think you can start something with me,” Sebastian continued, “and then walk away? That’s not how it works, feather boy. I'll show you, when we get to the Arena, I'll show you what happens when you mess with Sebastian Shaw."

"What, because if we were nice to you, you'd let us win?" Raven snapped, and suddenly Sebastian shoved Charles away and grabbed Raven instead, smashed her head against the training table and wrenched her arm up behind her back.

"Stop it! Sebastian, let her go!”

"Let her go? She could have killed me, tripping me with an axe in my hand. Yeah, Clove saw that.” Sebastian twisted Raven’s arm up higher; she gasped. “And that's cheating, little girl, trying to get in a kill before the Games begin. You're both just so eager to get started. So let's get started." He bore down on her arm.

Charles kicked him in the leg, hard enough to feel his own toe break.

Sebastian howled and stumbled, releasing Raven, but didn’t fall. Charles tried to get in a punch while he was off-balance, but Sebastian swung an elbow at his face. When Raven would have stepped in, Clove grabbed her, and held her kicking and screaming.

None of the trainers were doing a thing. For the first time, Charles understood just how much of an advantage the President’s son might have in the Games.

As before, the fight was short and not in Charles’s favor; Sebastian had years of combat training, and Charles had none. Within moments, Charles was on the floor, curled around his internal organs while Sebastian kicked and stomped.

“Clove, give me a knife,” Sebastian said – and then froze mid-motion. After a few breaths, Charles dared a glance up.

Erik was standing over him, the point of a _gladius_ brushing Sebastian’s throat.

“Back away,” Erik said, expressionless. “Both of you.”

Sebastian and Clove stepped back, scowling. Raven, blood trickling down her forehead, helped Charles to his feet.

“Erik?” Charles murmured, uncertain, aching like he’d fallen down a stone stairway.

“Go.” Erik jerked his head toward the nearest exit, not looking away from Sebastian. As Charles and Raven began to move, he followed, backing away with the sword still held out.

Only when they reached the door did Erik set the sword on the floor. Only when the door was closing behind them did he turn his back on the Careers.

One second too soon; light flashed on one of Clove’s knives, and Charles tackled Erik away from the narrowing gap of the door, slamming him against the wall.

“What—”

The blade _thunked_ inches deep into the opposite wall. They both stared at it for a moment, hearts hammering – Charles could feel Erik’s as clearly as his own. Gradually, he became aware of his own hands clenching Erik’s shirt, Erik gripping his shoulder with the other hand drawn back for a blow. He glanced up into Erik’s eyes and was trapped there, Erik staring back in tense, perhaps frightened confusion.

“There should be security coming,” Raven said. “I saw one of the trainers push a button.”

Charles stepped back, hissing through his teeth as the forgotten pain of his beating returned.

“Best get out of here, then,” Erik said, already walking away. “I recommend the infirmary.”


	7. The Plan

Capitol doctors might as well be called wizards; by the time Charles and Raven joined their mentor and escort for dinner, there was hardly a shadow of bruising to be seen on either of them, and Charles fancied he could feel his cracked ribs knitting back together. He’d sometimes wondered how the victor of the Games, often near death him or herself, always looked radiantly healthy by the time of the crowning; now he understood.

Logan knew what had happened; Charles could see it in the line of his mouth, the set of his shoulders. But he didn’t bring it up, and neither did Charles or Raven. What, after all, could Logan do about it? Take Sebastian Shaw to task? Not if he wanted to sleep with both eyes closed.

So Charles said nothing, and Raven and Logan said nothing, and Effie did enough talking for all of them. And eventually, when his stomach was full (still such a novel feeling), Charles spoke – not about the fight, but about the idea that had been rolling in his head all day, gradually gathering speed and shape.

"What if nobody played?"

Logan looked up, frowning. "Bit late for that."

"No, it isn't," Charles, feeling Raven and Effie's uncertain eyes on him. "The Games haven't started yet."

Logan snorted and took a large swallow of his drink. "The Games never _end,_ kid."

"Think about it, though! They drop twenty-four people into the arena and watch them kill each other until there's only one left. What if they _didn't_ kill each other?"

"Are you talking about forming an alliance?" Effie sounded bewildered. "Because that's fine, in fact I've been thinking—"

"An alliance, yes, I suppose. But not just one or two others, not even five or six others. _All_ of us. Everyone."

A long moment of wide-eyed silence.

"But then there would never be a victor," Effie said. "There can only be one victor."

"And they don't let anyone out until there's a victor," Raven said, sounding cautiously excited. "So, would they just leave us in there forever? We couldn't go home but at least—"

"You're even stupider than I thought," Logan growled. "Or haven't you been watching the Games your whole lives? You know what happens when it drag on too long without blood on the ground. The Gamemakers find a way to push things along. Besides, who in blazes are you kidding? You're never going to get everyone in line like that. You think Sebastian Shaw will pinky-promise not to hurt nobody? Or Frost, or that bloodthirsty little Clove? Only as long as it takes them to stab you in the back. All it takes is one liar with an axe, and you’re fish in a barrel."

"That's true," Charles said softly. "That's all true. But I can't just... Why should we kill each other just because they tell us to? We don't have to let them do that to us. They can't _make_ us do that."

"Are you listening to me at all? You act like you've got choices here, but if you don't fight, they'll find ways to kill you anyway – fires, floods, mutts—"

"But _they_ will have killed us!" Charles was surprised to find he was standing up. "There will be no way for them to deny _they did this to us,_ we didn't do it to each other, we didn't do it to ourselves. We didn't play their game!"

"But how can you protect Raven if you're not going to fight?" Effie said. "I don't know why you'd bother to come if you weren't going to protect Raven."

Charles felt his nostrils flare. "I will protect Raven to my dying breath."

"Then you're gonna have to kill some folk," Logan said bluntly.

"But what if—"

"No! No more of this!" Logan was standing now, too. "I'm not going to let you charge out there thinking you can all hold hands and sing until the Capitol lets you go. No. You do what I tell you, you just might save yourself or your sister. Ain't no other way you're getting out of there."

Silence for a few moments, Charles and Logan glaring at each other across the table.

"Wouldn't it be lovely, though," Effie murmured wistfully, perhaps only to herself, "if they all got to go home again..."

For just a moment, under the foof and sequins and unnatural pastels, Charles could see the Effie Trinket who knew full well what she was a part of, and retreated from that knowledge with everything she had, so that she could get through her day without screaming. How silly of him, to think the Games had only 24 victims. He glanced down at his half-eaten dinner with a twinge of nausea, and left the table without another word.

He crawled into bed and closed his eyes, but sleep felt far away, as far away as the bakery, his phoenixes, his tired snappish teary-eyed mother, all the things he'd never see again. Tomorrow was the last full day of training; after that would come the interviews and training scores; and then the arena. What would it be like, this year? A forest, a desert, a swamp, hills of snow, a labyrinth of caves? Sometimes it wasn't nature-inspired at all – it had been done up like someone's idea of a spaceship, one year, complete with "airlocks" leading to black voids with no oxygen. And once, when Charles was little, a dead-looking cityscape, all its buildings falling apart...

They'd shown footage from that year, he remembered suddenly, after the Reaping in District 8. Erik's District. Charles hadn't been paying much attention – the screens were on in the bakery, as per the law, but it was the peak of the morning rush and Charles had his hands full with a batch of cinnamon buns. But he remembered seeing rust and broken glass, hearing commentary about District 8, very unusually, having a volunteer. What the connection was between Erik and the abandoned-city arena, Charles could not recall.

Erik had helped them tonight – had risked his skin for theirs, and he might well pay for it later. Why would he help them? Sure, they'd been darting glances at each other for days, but he had rejected Charles’s overture this afternoon. Aesthetic appreciation, even if he could assume it was mutual, did not an alliance make, and Charles still wasn’t sure Erik wanted an alliance at all.

It wasn't just aesthetic appreciation, Charles admitted quietly, that drew his eye back toward Erik over and over throughout the day. There was a fascination to the lean, grim intensity of him, the loneliness he seemed to wear around him like a force field. Surely Erik felt something too, surely that was why he had picked up a sword and come to their rescue like some fairytale prince—

Ridiculous, childish, mooning over a stranger. Thoroughly annoyed at himself, Charles turned over, punched his pillow (the fluffiest he'd ever seen), and buried his face in it, willing himself to sleep.

The door opened, spilling a narrow slice of light into the room. "Charles?"

"Raven." He looked up, already making room for her in the bed, and put his arms around her when she snuggled up to his chest. "What's wrong?"

Raven didn't say anything for a long minute. "At first," she said eventually, "when you volunteered to go with me, I thought it was going to be you and me against the world. And then Logan said, on the train, that they wouldn't let two people win, even from the same district. And you didn't even pause. You said 'then Raven will win.'" She swallowed. "Like you already died the minute you said 'I volunteer.' So, I figure... I figure you have the right to pick how it happens."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I think we should do what you said. The alliance. I think we should try."

"Really?" Charles could hardly speak through the tangle of emotions suddenly crowding his throat – hope and excitement, fear and dread, a deep suspicion that he did not deserve this gesture of faith from Raven.

"Really. We do it smart, though. And on one condition – if something happens to me, you promise me you won't just give up. You'll try to win."

It was excruciating to even imagine outliving Raven. Charles took a deep breath and said, "I promise," hoping it wasn't a lie.

***

“Because it was Shaw,” Erik said irritably when Greta asked him why he’d defended the kids from 12 – he didn’t know how she even knew he’d done it, but word seemed to be spreading. “He’s the cream of that twisted crop of bullies, he’s – he’s everything I hate most and I wasn’t going to sit there and let him have a victory before the game even starts.”

Greta didn’t inquire any further, so there was no reason for Erik to keep coming up with explanations in his mind, each weaker than the last. And no reason at all to keep absently touching the prints Charles’s camouflage-painted hands had left on his shirt.

***

Far into the night, Charles woke from some formless nightmare that left him shaky and off-balance. He maneuvered out of the bed without waking Raven, and went to find some water.

Instead, he found their mentor and stylist in one still-lit corner of the penthouse, Oliver sipping a drink while Logan smoked a cigar.

"—doing our job for us, I'd say." Oliver sounded bemused. "That's better than anything we'd come up with."

"It won't work."

"Of course it won't work. But we wanted martyrs, after all. What could be better than the Phoenixes of District 12 giving the Capitol the middle finger with their last breaths – via unity and compassion for all? The speeches practically write themselves."

"Geez, Ollie. I thought I was supposed to be the cold-blooded one."

"You're the one who keeps saying they're going to die anyway. We might as well make it mean something. Use it to save the next batch, if we can."

Charles backed away, and padded silently back to bed, where he lay staring at the faint gleam of Raven's hair in the darkness.

Perhaps it should bother him, he thought. The people he trusted most in this place were planning to use his death as a political weapon, a move in a game. Instead, he was something close to exhilarated. His death – Raven's, too, if it came to that – wouldn't be for nothing. If they could be used against the Capitol – if they could be used, somehow, to end the Mutant Games for good – he could live with that. Or, well. Not-live, as the case may be.

They needed a rallying point, someone to stand up and say "No" to the Capitol? Very well. He would provide.


	8. Training Scores

Charles Xavier was up to something.

At first, as he watched the boy and his sister drift around the Training Center from group to group, talking in hushed tones, Erik thought he was sniffing around for an alliance. For a single insane moment he was irked not to have been approached. But of course he'd have turned them down anyway. He couldn't afford that kind of distraction.

But it couldn't be an alliance after all, Erik had to conclude, when a few hours had passed and still the 'Phoenixes' were approaching more tributes. Surely someone would have bitten by now – he'd have thought that red-haired boy from 6 and the gawky, bespectacled one from 3 were sure bets, though they certainly weren't the allies Erik would have chosen.

Charles was talking to the pair from 10 now. Quietly Erik moved to the nearby snares station, where he could hunker down in the grass and eavesdrop.

"Are you crazy?" the boy from 10 demanded.

"Keep your voice down, Levine!" his district partner hissed. "Charles, if the Careers get any hint of this—"

"I wasn't planning to invite them," Charles said softly. "Maybe when they see it in action, they'll be interested... but you're right, it's too big a risk to let them know ahead of time."

"Do you really think the Gamemakers would let us get away with this?" The girl – Myra? Mara? – looked intrigued in spite of herself.

"They can't actually stop us, can they?" Charles gave her a crooked smile.

"It's just an alliance," Raven added. "If we were asking you for an alliance, you'd consider it, wouldn't you?"

"Of course," the girl said, though Levine looked less certain.

"Then just think of it as—" Raven broke off, and Erik realized she'd seen him watching. Turning his attention instantly back to his snare did no good; the group moved off, voices lowered.

Once or twice that day, Charles seemed to be moving in Erik’s direction, but Erik always evaded him. Whatever that boy was up to, Erik wanted no part of it.

He had to smile, watching the Careers’ smug faces crease with irritation, confusion, concern, as they realized something was happening around them. Whatever Charles was up to, it could mess up Erik's plan and Erik didn't like it; but he was happy to see Sebastian Shaw liked it even less.

***

“I didn’t get a chance to speak to Erik today. Maybe somehow I can catch him tomorrow.”

“It might be just as well. We said no volunteers.” Raven lay curled up against Charles’s chest in the dark room.

"I know. But he’s different. He helped us."

“For whatever reason.”

“Oh, don’t be so suspicious, Raven, we need a spirit of cooperation. You know, it’s funny. People have mostly been easier to convince than I thought.” Only three of the fifteen they'd approached had turned him down; the boy from 9 and the girls from 5 and 8. He hadn't managed to talk to quite everyone in person, but Moira and Hank had gotten to the ones he couldn't – all but Erik – and assured him of their agreement.

Was it enough? Would anything less than all twenty-four be enough? Or was he, as Logan had said, just making it easy for the ones who _were_ willing to kill? They wouldn't just lie down and die; that was part of what Raven meant by doing it smart. But they wouldn't hurt anyone who wasn't attacking them. They wouldn't turn on each other like dogs squabbling over a bone.

Fourteen would be enough to make a statement, at least. Something for Logan and Oliver to use. Thinking of it that way made him feel soiled and sick, but he _wasn't_ leading people to their deaths to make a statement. That was what the _Capitol_ had done, collecting tributes to show the districts their own helplessness. At worst, he was turning the Capitol's statement against them, making the tributes' deaths mean the opposite of what they wanted; at best, he couldn't help hoping that somehow, somehow, he might keep them from dying at all.

"Remember to throw the weights before you take the intelligence test tomorrow," Raven said sleepily. "One-two punch, Logan said. Don't get all flustered and forget."

One-two punch, strong and smart. Charles knew he didn't look like much, but bakery work wasn't as cushy as it might seem; there was dough to knead, hour after hour, and trays to balance and carry, firewood to haul (phoenixes did tire), and fifty-pound bags of flour to lift and stack and toss up to Kurt in the overhead storage. Even Logan had seemed a little impressed at the amount of muscle packed onto his rather compact frame.

“I won’t forget, Raven. We've been over it a dozen times at least. _You_ just try to restrain yourself from drawing naughty words in the camouflage paint.”

She kicked at him haphazardly, and he laughed. Better to laugh than think about training scores tomorrow morning, and interviews in the evening. Better to laugh than think about Erik.

He rolled over, pressing his back to Raven's, and tried to sleep.

***

It was a long wait, sitting in the corridor outside the gymnasium, where they would all perform and be judged. District 12 was, of course, the last to go, and the male tribute last of all; Charles presented confidence and reassurance as long as Raven was in sight, but fell to trembling and rocking in his seat the moment she disappeared through the double doors.

After approximately a year and a half, he was called in for his turn, without, of course, being allowed to see Raven or inquire how she did.

The gymnasium had been rearranged somewhat, but still contained everything a tribute might need to prove his worth; weapons, weights, mannequins, stations for paint and snares and survival skills, stations for computerized tests of knowledge and intelligence. And, of course, it contained the judges, the Gamemakers, the scattering of men and women who would assign a number to his worth in the arena.

They were paying no attention to him whatsoever.

They occupied a small enclosure overhead, filled with comfortable chairs, trays of food and drink, everything brightly colored and beautiful as tropical birds. A shock of homesickness stole Charles's breath, a longing for the bakery, where all was grey and brown and white with flour, but for the brilliant scarlet of phoenix fire. The Gamemakers chattered in their bower, perusing the culinary offerings, refilling drinks, laughing and – that one was practicing some kind of dance step.

"Charles Xavier, District 12," he said, but no one turned, no one looked his way. He said it again, louder. Still nothing. Some of those rainbow-colored drinks were clearly intoxicants; more than one Gamemaker stumbled and giggled, crossing the enclosure.

They held his life, all the tributes' lives, in their hands, and they couldn't be bothered to notice him. In two days, he could be dead because of the score he received here, and they had made a party of it. 

"Who ordered this pig? I demand to know who ordered this pig!"

Had they even looked at Raven? Or simply glanced at her profile, slapped her with a, a _two_ or something, and sent her on to die?

Choking on panic and rage, Charles made a move toward the free weights – then stopped himself. They weren't playing by the rules, weren't holding up their end. Neither would he.

He walked to the testing station instead, and sat – not in the seat, where he belonged, but on the testing screen – facing the Gamemakers. And waited.

It was ten full minutes before someone noticed him, started tugging sleeves, murmuring in ears. The Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane with his artfully strange beard, was the last to turn and face Charles.

"Sorry for the delay," he said brightly. "You may begin."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

Charles lifted his chin, and said it louder. "No. I'm not playing."

"What? What do you mean?"

Charles scanned the gallery of expressions being turned on him now – confused, impatient, amused, annoyed.

"I refuse to participate in this farce," Charles said. They seemed to be waiting for him to clarify further, but what was the use? None of them were capable of understanding, even if they truly wanted to, which they did not.

"You realize," Seneca Crane said, sounding honestly concerned, "that this will be your only chance to earn a training score?"

"I do." And now, now of all times, the hot righteous anger was draining away, panic gaining the upper hand. What was going to happen now?

"Fine." Crane sounded downright offended, as if Charles had spoiled his… game. "You may go, then."

At first Charles couldn't move, pinned by the faces of the men standing just behind Crane – older, deeper men, President Shaw's men. They did not look offended and annoyed. They looked angry, grimly enraged. And beneath that, they looked frightened. As Cain did, any time Charles forced him to look at the truth of himself. Just before he pounded Charles into the dirt.

Trying not to let his legs wobble, Charles walked to the exit doors, panic now in full sway. What had he just done? They were going to give him a score of zero. Of course they would, what else could they possibly give him? He was going to get a zero, and lose all the allies he'd fought to gather, and be everyone's first easy picking. He had just signed his own death warrant, and Raven's too.

***

Erik, Greta, and Cecelia watched the posting of the training scores from the District 8 apartment, while Woof dozed against the window.

"I've always felt it was pointless to give scores," Greta said, "when there's no telling what our mutations will give us."

"People want to start placing their bets now," Cecelia said. "Better to have a preliminary idea than nothing."

Erik had been trying not to think about the mutations. Letting the Capitol inject mutagen into his body, when there was no predicting the result – it might be invincible power, or it might be death in agony as his body twisted in on itself. That was rare, happened maybe once every ten years, but you only had to see it once to remember it forever. And then, too, it might do nothing at all, leaving him uselessly normal against adversaries that could fly, stretch, flame, teleport...

Scores were filling the screen now, to the endless patter of Caesar Flickerman's voice. The Careers had all scored high, no surprise; Azazel was the highest with a rare 11. That gawky boy from 3 had gotten a surprising 7; he didn't look like he could lift a sword, much less swing it, so he must be pretty intelligent. Middling-to-respectable scores in 5, 6, and 7.

From District 8 – Erik Lehnsherr with a score of 9. Greta Eklund with a score of 10.

Erik blinked, but let himself smile and shake Greta's hand. "Congratulations! You're right up there with Sebastian and Clove."

"Nine's not bad either, what did you—"

"Edie scored a 6."

Erik froze, looking past Greta to Cecelia. She was watching the screen, glassy-eyed. "What was that, Cecelia?"

"Edie scored a 6. She had no particular skill with... anything. We hoped she would get a good mutation, to make up for it, but she didn't react to the mutagen at all. And she still made it to the final three." She shook her head, as if waking up. "Just goes to show, you never can tell. But 10, Greta, that's more than we dared hope! Look, I'm getting messages from sponsors already."

Greta, looking unsettled, let herself be distracted by the sponsors; Erik continued watching the scores. The little red-haired girl from 9 had gotten a 3; he winced. 5 for Levine from District 10, 6 for his partner – Moira, that was the name. Matched sevens for the pair from 11. And then...

From District 12 – Raven Marko, 6. Higher than he'd expected; the little redhead with the 3 was at least a year older than her.

Charles Xavier… 12.

Even Caesar Flickerman was rendered speechless for a moment. Erik's mouth was still hanging open when the blue-haired host recovered, crowing with excitement, nattering about the landmark event, the maximum training score it was possible to receive, only awarded once before in Mutant Games history, to a girl who then died of mutagen reaction before she could prove herself, and what he would have given to be a fly on the wall of the Training Center during that scoring session—

"I can't believe it," Greta said in hushed tones. "That fragile-looking kid. He'll be all set now, that's for sure. Even Shaw's kid can't compete with that."

"Poor, poor child," Woof muttered at the window, tears trickling down his face. "I wonder what in the world he did to deserve it."

***

"Charles." Raven's eyes were wide enough to swallow her face.

"Why, Charles, congratulations!" Effie began, but Logan cut her off sharply.

"What did you do?"

Charles was still staring at the screen, unable to breathe. "Nothing," he managed.

Logan snatched him to his feet, shoved him back against the breakfast bar. "What," he growled, Charles's shirtfront in his fist, "did you _do?"_

"Nothing. I swear. Nothing – nothing at all." He had agonized for hours whether to tell Raven and Logan about the expected zero, hadn't found the courage. "Logan. I literally – I didn't do anything. I told them…"

"What did you tell them?"

"That I wasn't playing their game."

Logan looked as if he might have a seizure. He tore away from Charles and began to pour himself a drink with shaking hands.

"Well, what does it matter?" Effie said brightly. "Whatever he did, it impressed the Gamemakers! You're going to make history, Charles!"

"He's going to _be_ history. Damn you, woman, are you this stupid? Do you actually think they've done him a favor?"

Effie, to Charles's surprise, pressed her lips together and looked away. Raven looked on the verge of tears. Charles wished he could go to her, but he seemed to have lost the ability to move.

"He'll be the first threat everyone wants eliminated," Logan said, "the prize that _everyone_ wants the honor of taking down. The number one target in the arena."


	9. Interviews

The 12-from-12 drew looks, of course, from the other tributes waiting in line for interviews. Murderous ones, from Shaw and Frost and Clove, oddly thoughtful ones from Ororo and Azazel, calculating or fearful ones from several others – but his allies, by and large, favored Charles only with approving, congratulatory smiles. As Districts 1 and 2 took their turns and exited, the atmosphere relaxed further, and tributes began to reach out to him and to each other – a hand to a shoulder, an encouraging murmur. They weren't enemies anymore, the members of his alliance. Their survival was no longer dependent on each other's failure. Charles felt a wholly unexpected surge of emotion. Maybe Logan was wrong. This would work out. They were all in it together.

Well, most of them. Charles bit his lip, watching the girl from 5 step out of line to take her turn on stage; he hadn't caught her name, only heard one of the other tributes call her Foxface. She had listened carefully to Charles's plan, and coolly informed him she'd rather take her chances alone. Her district partner, Alex, now jiggling his leg as he waited at the head of the line, had been a lot more receptive.

Raven sighed next to him, fiddling with her spiral-curled pigtails and the fluffy pink ballerina dress she'd only donned after a screaming match with Logan. "I'm _supposed_ to look harmless," she muttered, as if reminding herself. "I'm supposed to be so cute and sweet that no one can stand to hurt me. _You're_ the sweet one." She poked Charles in the arm. "It's hilarious how they're trying to make you look dangerous."

Charles did feel a bit ridiculous in the distinctly militaristic uniform they'd put him in, navy blue with gold trim, epaulets and such. He felt it would have looked more impressive if the boy inside it had been old enough to grow a beard, 12 or no 12. But he squeezed Raven's hand and said, "Don't think for a second that I'm not dangerous, love. If anyone messes with you, they won't find me very sweet at all."

Alex had his interview, then Jubilee, then Sean. Charles watched the boy from 7, John of the bleached-blond hair, playing with his token, a lighter painted to look like a shark. A strange token, he thought, for someone whose district specialized in wood and paper. Hank had been the one to talk to John, not Charles, and frankly the boy made Charles a little uneasy. But he was part of the alliance now.

Charles managed to keep himself from looking at Erik, as the minutes dragged on, though he felt Erik's gaze on him continually. When Erik's interview came, Charles's resistance failed; his eyes were glued to the screen.

"So, Erik, it's unusual to get a volunteer from District 8," said Caesar Flickerman, as usual turning his undivided attention on his new interview subject – Charles imagined that interview night had to be exhausting for him. "At your Reaping, you stated this was in honor of your sister. Could you tell us about that?"

Erik's smile was razor-sharp; if Charles looked like a soldier (theoretically), Erik looked like an assassin, dressed all in black that clung to his throat and torso and somehow nudged his grey-green eyes from enigmatic to dazzling.

"My sister, Edie, was nine years older than me, and the only mother I ever knew," Erik said. "She was a tribute in the 65th Mutant Games." Half the screen was now devoted to a picture of a girl in her late teens, dark-haired and bony, rather plain but with large, expressive eyes. EDIE LEHNSHERR, read the caption, DISTRICT 8, 18 YEARS OLD. "When her name was drawn, Edie promised me she would win and come back to me, and she almost did. She almost did." For the briefest moment, his grim facade cracked

Perhaps to help him cover it, Caesar clapped him on the shoulder and said, "You're absolutely right, Edie was a great credit to your district. Seventeen days in the arena! Are you hoping to beat her record?"

"I'm hoping to win in her honor," Erik said. "Give her the victory she deserved. This is the token she carried." He held up a coin, flipped it expertly onto the back of his hand. "Heads, I win," he said, aiming a chilling smile directly into the camera.

"And so you do!" Caesar laughed, peering at the coin in delight. "You've shown a great deal of promise in training, Erik, and you're certainly motivated – I'm sure you'll do your sister proud!"

Erik let himself be glad-handed off the stage, moving with unhurried grace, and tossing one last smile at the camera. Charles felt a queasy fear join with his unwilling fascination with Erik; that wasn't the smile of a boy looking to honor his sister.

It was the smile of someone looking to take all of them with him on his trip to hell.

***

Erik knew he should stick around to watch the other interviews; he was bound to miss important information about his competitors otherwise. But talking about Edie had left him feeling sick and shaky, rage simmering under his skin with nowhere to go. He ended up back in the empty Training Center, hacking mannequins apart and imagining each with President Shaw's smug face. When there were no mannequins left undamaged, he dropped his sword with a satisfying clatter, wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve, and headed back for the District 8 apartment.

He was only halfway there when he found a screen playing in a corridor. He was just in time to catch the last of the interviews.

Charles and Raven were sitting together, hands linked; a joint interview? Caesar Flickerman had probably played that up as an amazing Mutant Games first, to go with Charles's inexplicably high score. Right now Flickerman was making some kind of pun about Raven's bird-associated name and her feather token, which looked to be encased in some kind of epoxy now, for durability. Raven giggled shyly, kicking her feet as they dangled inches above the floor; she really was good at playing the Sweet Little Angel. No one would ever suspect her of tripping a Career. Erik felt one corner of his mouth turn up reluctantly.

Charles was answering a question now about the Reaping; for a moment one corner of the screen was dedicated to footage of Charles fighting a Peacekeeper's grip on his arm, screaming soundlessly for his sister. The panic and desperation of it was jarring, next to the cheery smiles of the interview stage; Erik saw Charles falter a moment, perhaps confronted with his own image on the overhead screen.

"—do your parents feel about it?" Caesar was asking. "Do they feel better knowing Raven has you in her corner?"

"Yes, they... they know I'll take good care of her," Charles said. "My mother said my father – my real father – if he were still alive, he'd be proud of me."

"I'm certainly proud of you," Raven said, leaning against Charles's shoulder. "I have the best big brother in the whole world!"

"And I have the best little sister," Charles said, kissing the top of her head.

"One thing I have to ask about," said Caesar. "The accent. I mean, all the way out in District 12 – they have their own way of speaking, but you sound like you could have walked right off the streets of the Capitol! It's very posh."

"Oh, that." Charles looked startled, his cheeks pinking a little as he nervously ruffled his own hair, and Erik refused to acknowledge the way his breath caught. "When I was younger, and my family in better circumstances, I attended school here in the Capitol."

"Did you, now!" Caesar looked thrilled, and Erik rolled his eyes as there followed an excited exchange about Capitol schools and how Charles had liked it and whether he might like to continue his education there, if he won the Games. "After all, money will be nothing, once you're a victor."

"Well, I don't really see that happening, Caesar," Charles said gently. "My goal is to ensure Raven's victory, not my own."

Flickerman turned smoothly to the girl, glossing right over the implications. "Well, what about you then, Raven? Might you like to go to school in the Capitol when you come back from the Games?"

Raven's eyes flashed, for just a moment, and Erik half-expected her to snarl something about where exactly the Capitol could put its schools, but in the next moment she was all sugar and sparkle again. "That would be great! Everything's so beautiful here."

"Are you frightened of going into the arena tomorrow, Raven?"

"No." She raised her chin, clutching Charles's hand visibly tighter. "I know Charles will take care of me."

"I'm sure he will," Caesar said with grave confidence. "Thank you for joining us—"

"There's one more thing I wanted to say, Caesar, if you'll forgive me," Charles interjected, and Erik fought not to fall back a step as that piercing blue gaze turned directly into the camera. Charles bit at his lip nervously before saying, "I've always admired phoenixes. They were designed to be weapons, and instead they are gentle and tame. They were designed to serve a purpose and then die, but instead they survived, and flourished. Raven and I are very proud to be associated with them in any way."

He hurried Raven off the stage, then, leaving Caesar looking uncertain and a little spooked, before rallying to close out the event.

Erik stared at the screen unseeing, his heart pounding with a peculiar mix of fear and formless, nameless hope. _What game are you playing, you crazy sentimental fool?_


	10. The Rooftop

He had been stupid, Erik told himself, to ever talk to Charles and Raven at all. What had he been thinking, intervening against the Careers for them? What did he care what Shaw did to them? That just decreased the chance of Erik having to deal with them himself.

Even if Sebastian's expression, as Charles broke his nose, had been _priceless._

That thought was his only entertainment through an unspeakably awkward dinner in which Cecelia spoke only to Greta, Greta spoke only to her plate, and Woof tried over and over to cut his meat with a napkin.

They would go into the arena tomorrow.

Erik lay in bed for hours after dinner, sleepless, flipping his coin through his fingers. The bed was too soft, the room too warm. He used the bedside controls to flick through different window-views, and only when he recognized the rotting cityscape of Edie's Games did he realize all the options were views of past arenas. He turned the display off, flung the controls away, and half-bolted for the door.

He expected it to be locked, each sacrificial lamb safely penned for the night. But it opened without protest, and Erik found himself in a dark corridor with no real idea where to go.

Up, he decided half-consciously. In the tenements of District 8, _up_ was safety, _up_ kept you above the heads of the Peacekeepers and anyone else who wanted to get the drop on you.

On the roof, he found he could almost pretend that he was at home, looking out over the sleepless shadows of District 8. The Capitol was sleepless, too, though much better lit, a brilliant web of glittering colors in all directions. The roof itself carried a rippling aquamarine glow, drifting over from the pool atop the adjoining tower of the Training Center.

Erik leaned back against the door, watching that shifting light and remembering laughter, splashing and whooping, a dozen kids forgetting for a while why they were here. Did Charles Xavier think he was doing them a favor, in that? The more any of them liked or trusted each other, the harder it would be for everyone, later.

He wondered if the cameras had caught that, if all of Panem had seen. They didn’t usually show much of the training, just a few highlights in between interviews with the families and mentors and stylists, endless rehashing of the Reapings and the Parade, maybe sneak peeks of the arena that the tributes would not, of course, be allowed to see.

"You couldn't sleep either, I take it?"

Erik whirled, instinctively dropping into a defensive position, though he'd already recognized the voice. Charles walked toward him across the roof, biting his lip over a nervous smile. Like Erik, he was wearing the simple white sleeping clothes provided by the Capitol, the V of the neck coming rather further down on Charles's slender chest than on Erik's.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Charles said, stopping to lean on the rail next to Erik. "I'm glad to see you, actually. We haven't had much chance to talk."

Erik stared. "We... aren't really here to talk."

Charles flushed a little, looking out over the city. "I suppose. I wanted to thank you, though."

"You're welcome. Conversation over."

Charles sighed and looked out over the city. "You and I, you now – we have a certain amount in common. Both here for our sisters."

Erik found his coin in his hand, ran his thumb across it.

"That coin – it's double-headed, isn't it?" Charles said. "In your interview, you said, 'Heads, I win,' without ever looking at it. It's always heads."

Reluctantly, Erik nodded. "I found it, and gave it to Edie, for good luck. She'd flip it, all along, when she figured there was a camera on her, and say 'Heads, I win.' It was..." Why was he even saying any of this? "It was her signal to me. That everything was all right, I guess."

"I remember her year," Charles said softly. "I was only seven, but I remember it a little. I'd never seen so many buildings in one place, all of them so large."

"What a strange place District 12 must be. District 8 is all tenements and factories – Edie knew how to navigate a cityscape, how to hide, take advantage of echoes and machinery. She was doing well, she was doing _so well._ After ten days, it was down to her and a pair of Careers. She could have outlasted them – she'd found water, and still had a little food, while they hadn't eaten in days – and they couldn't catch her. She didn't even develop any powers and they still couldn't catch her. It was her game, she _had_ it. Like it'd been designed for her." The coin dug painfully into his hand. "But the Gamemakers couldn't have that. They couldn't have some tennie-rat from District 8 beating their precious Careers, starving them out, ruining the show." 

He gave Charles the kind of smile most people recoiled from, but Charles didn't move. "President Shaw was the Head Gamemaker that year. His last year, in fact; the 65th Games were widely called his masterpiece, and he rode that wave all the way to the Presidency. According to interviews, the ghosts were his idea."

"Ghosts?" Charles whispered. "The – the ghosts were real? I thought I'd made them up – I had nightmares—"

"I'm not surprised. They were mutts, of course, perfectly solid, but they looked... They made one for each remaining tribute, a translucent, rotting, ghostly version of themselves. Edie's ghost cornered her on a rooftop. She was so scared." His throat closed up for a moment; he didn't dare look at Charles. "When she fell, and spattered like a melon on the concrete, the ghost took out a coin and flipped it. 'Heads, I win.'"

For a long time, the rooftop was silent but for the ambient sound drifting up from the street. Somewhere, the Anthem was playing, Capitol twits having a pre-Games party. The sick, simmering feeling from earlier was back, Erik's hand clenched numbly around his coin, and he didn't know why he'd said all this to Charles, except that maybe he wanted someone to know, to understand. Even someone who'd likely be dead in a week.

Charles had not recoiled from his worst smile, nor his worst memories; in fact he was standing closer now, looking steadily into Erik's face, and when his hand covered Erik's on the railing, warm against the chilly night, Erik knew he should shake it off, pull away, leave, leave.

He didn't.

"You're not here to honor your sister, are you," Charles said. "You're here to avenge her."

"Yes," Erik said, somewhere between a growl and a hiss.

"But... how? How does killing twenty-three other unfortunate children do anything to—"

"It's not them. They're" _–you're–_ "a means to an end. The goal is Shaw."

Understanding dawned in Charles's face. "Shaw will crown the victor."

"And it'll be the last thing he ever does." Again, Charles failed to recoil from what wasn't even really a smile.

He did look horrified, however. "Erik, they'll kill you."

That was the very last thing Erik had expected him to be worried about. "Of course they will. Though I won't make it easy."

"Erik, how can you – do you really think that's what your sister would have wanted for you?"

"It's what _I_ want for me."

"Do you really think killing Shaw will bring you peace?"

"Peace?" Erik laughed, disbelieving. "When was that an option?"

Charles looked gutted, and some part of Erik's mind whispered a literal interpretation of that, _this is how he'll look, when someone eventually gets him in the arena._ Without consulting him, his fingers, under Charles's on the railing, flexed and threaded between Charles's fingers, as if to hold him in place.

"I think I have a better way," Charles said urgently, edging closer and lowering his voice. "A better way to defeat the Capitol."

"What do you mean?"

Charles worried his lip. "Erik... why do you think the Games have a winner?"

Erik frowned.

"I mean, if all the Capitol wanted was to intimidate the districts, why not just round up twenty-four children at random and shoot them? It would be a lot faster."

"Then they wouldn't have their show."

"But why is the show important? To the districts, I mean. Why do the districts watch the Games? You know they would, even if it weren't the law, at least as long as their own tributes are still alive. Why?"

"Hoping their tribute will win."

 _"Exactly._ Hope. They are chained to the screen so long as their children have any hope of winning. And we tributes? We go along with the rules of the Game because that's the only _hope of winning._ If there weren't a victor, if they just threw us in there and told us to kill until there was _no one_ left, would we do it? Of course not."

Erik just stared at him. He didn't understand what Charles was getting at, but the intensity radiating from him, the fire in his eyes, was impossible to look away from.

"Hope is the only thing stronger than fear," Charles said. "They give us a little, just enough to keep us playing by the rules. A spark, carefully contained. And I..." He paused, worrying his lip again, and Erik wished he would stop. He was standing much too close. "Several of the others and I," Charles said, his voice lower still, so that Erik had to lean even closer to hear, "we've decided we're not playing by the rules. We're not going to give them a victor. We're refusing to fight."

Erik jerked back as if stung. Surely Charles knew that was suicide, probably for all of them – yes, he did know, deep down, Erik could see it in the shadows under his eyes. "Why would you do that?" he said hoarsely.

Charles took a deep breath, his gaze flicking back out to the city lights for a moment. "We have to show them—"

"No. You don't speak for the others. I want to know why _you're_ doing this."

"Fine, then. _I_ want to show them." The fever-light was back in his eyes now, the one that pulled Erik closer whatever the risk of being burned. "They don't own me. They might kill me, but they'll never own me. If I die, I die as myself."

For a long moment, Erik returned his gaze in silence, unmoving. Then, slowly, he pulled his hand free of their joined grip on the rail, and took a step back. "I can't afford to think like that."

"…Ah." Charles seemed suddenly smaller somehow. "I see. May I assume you'll keep this conversation between us?"

Because if the Careers, or the _Gamemakers,_ got the least whisper of it... Erik swallowed. "Of course."

"Good. Well. Best of luck tomorrow, Erik. May the odds be in your favor." With a sad, crooked smile, he turned and walked away.

Just before he reached the door to the stairwell, Erik dashed after him, turning him around by the shoulder, and stepping rather farther into his space than he'd intended. For a long moment, distracted by the mingled hope and anxiety in Charles's expression, he couldn't remember what he'd intended to say.

"You too," he managed at last. "Good luck to you too."

"Thank you," Charles said, smiling as if Erik had given him something. "Goodnight, Erik."

This time Erik let him leave, and stayed on the roof another half hour, to make absolutely certain he wouldn't run into him on the stairs when he went back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that there's a guide to all the tributes and where they're from [here](http://turtletotem.livejournal.com/5939.html).


	11. Launching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a longer wait than usual for the next chapter, sorry guys but I'm burning through my buffer at an alarming rate and need to get a little further ahead of myself! Not a _long_ long wait, though, like a week or something.

They were injected with trackers and mutagen on the plane to the arena, all the tributes strapped into seats along the walls. Charles squeezed Raven's hand as she bit her lip against the sting. He swallowed hard when his own turn came, bothered less by the pain than the knowledge that the cold, heavy burn in his arm was going to change him, turn him into something else. His mind recited the Reaping Day video at him as the burn spread through his body. _During the Mutation Wars, thirteen districts rebelled against their government using unnatural powers given by the misuse of technology..._

The victor didn't get to keep it, of course, whatever unnatural power he was granted in remembrance of their foolhardy ancestors. The first thing the Capitol did, on retrieving him or her from the arena, was patch up wounds and strip away the mutagen. And of course, for anyone other than the victor, it didn't matter anymore.

Charles felt a lightheaded disconnect sweep over him as he looked around. One person on this plane would survive. Only one. Everyone else, all the people around him, would die. He clutched Raven's hand tighter, for his own comfort now.

Erik was too far down the line for Charles to see him clearly, which was probably just as well. Perhaps it had been mad, trying to bring Erik into the alliance. But he couldn't have done otherwise, not after what Erik told him, his insane assassination plan... There had to be a better way than that. He didn't know why it mattered to him so much, that Erik... what, not die? Be happy? Neither of those were very likely. He couldn't explain it, but Erik _mattered_ to him.

The plane began to descend, and Charles drew in a deep breath. Focus. Let Erik walk the path he'd chosen, and focus on walking his own.

 

Somehow he hadn't realized he and Raven would be separated. Having her pulled away into a different Launching Room nearly sent him into a panic; Logan grabbed him by the arm and hustled him into his own Launching Room before he could cause a scene.

"Geez, Chuck, which of you is the delicate flower? You'll see her again in ten minutes, I promise. Just don't go running off your platform or you'll both get blown to bits."

"Right. Yes." Charles closed his eyes, tried to breathe deeply. Just last year a tribute had dropped his token off the platform and detonated himself before the Games even began. Had anyone reminded Raven to stay on her platform? Oliver was with her, surely he'd remind her...

"Time to put your head in the game, Chuck," Logan said, with the closest approximation to gentleness Charles had ever heard from him. He put his hands on Charles's shoulders. "You can do this. You really can. Just follow the plan."

"We have our own plan now."

Logan's brow creased. "What?"

"You'll like it, you and Oliver. I know what you're trying to do. I heard you talking—"

Logan's grip on his shoulders abruptly became crushing, accompanied by a glare of mingled shock and alarm. "What we're trying to do," he said, with a significant glance at the ceiling – cameras, of course, cameras – "is give you and Raven the best chance we can. You know that."

"Yes, of course. What I meant, Logan," Charles gave him a crooked smile, "is that I personally appreciate everything you've tried to do for us. _Everything._ And I think you'll find that my actions in the arena reflect that."

Logan shook his head; Charles thought perhaps he wasn't sure whether to laugh or throttle him. "Trust you to have it all figured out. You show 'em, kid." He gave Charles a rough sort of pat on the cheek. "The Phoenix of District 12."

"Phoenixes," Charles corrected, but Logan shook his head ruefully.

"Only one winner, kid. And if I was allowed to bet, my money'd be on you." He flicked a fingernail against the resin-sheathed feather pinned to Charles's shirt, then nudged him toward the tube that would take him up to the arena. "Time to go."

***

Erik's stylist fussed over him in the Launching Room, arranging his hair just so, buttoning and unbuttoning his coat to study the effect, and decide on unbuttoned. The clothes they'd been given were the only hint of what sort of arena they were facing; boots, cargo pants, a leather jacket over a short-sleeved shirt, everything done in earthy colors and sturdy material. Not a desert, then, and probably not a snowscape. He'd find out for sure soon enough.

"Smells like fish in here," Woof said vaguely, staring at the wall. Erik wasn't sure how he'd even found his way inside.

"There," the stylist said, stepping back. "That's... that's all I can do for you, then. Good luck in there, tribute." Without waiting for a response, he scurried away.

Woof turned toward him once they were alone in the room, his eyes almost-focusing on some point just to Erik's right. "Fish," he said. "That's important."

Erik sighed. "I don't suppose you can tell me how you did it? How you won the Games? Do you even remember?"

"Yes," Woof said, and Erik blinked. It was the first time he'd seen the man respond so directly to anything. "I remember. I'm the only one left."

"You won," Erik said, cautiously. "How? Can you tell me how?"

"By being the worst of them." Woof's voice was hardly above a whisper. He stepped forward and grabbed fistfuls of Erik's jacket; Erik stiffened, ready to push the old man away if he got violent. "It's not worth it, boy. Die quick and clean. They kill you like an animal but you die a human being."

Erik just stared, into eyes that were focused and needle-sharp for the first time in – how long? Before he could stammer out any sort of reply, that focus faded, the man's wrinkled face going slack, fists loosening their grip on Erik's clothes as his gaze wandered off to the right.

"It smells like fish in here..."

He was running his fingers in wavy lines along the wall when Erik stepped into his Launching Tube, and rose out of sight.


	12. The Cornucopia

Rising into the arena felt something like drowning; Charles couldn't draw breath, couldn't hear anything but the frantic rush of his own blood. His vision threatened to cloud over; he suspected only the thought of exploding if he fell off his platform kept him from passing out.

Then he glanced to the side, and there was Raven, white and trembling, looking every inch the helpless child they'd painted her as, with pink ribbon braided into her pigtails. He was here for Raven. And the others — He swept his eyes around the circle of tributes, finding Hank, Sean, Moira, Alex, Angel, Erik – not Erik, he doesn't matter now – all his Allies, shifting their weight on their platforms, glancing from him to the Cornucopia, the land around them, the timer counting down.

46 seconds until hell broke loose.

Charles forced his face into an expression of confidence and reassurance, or so he dearly hoped – Raven seemed to steady, anyway – and focused on his surroundings.

Before them, the Cornucopia, the "horn of plenty" that this year was made of dark, sharp-angled metal and looked more like some open-mouthed predator of the deep. Stacked within, and scattered in the sand before it, was the usual assortment of weaponry, crates of food, individual backpacks of supplies. Beyond the Cornucopia, waves lapped at the sand, scenting the air with salt. No retreat that way.

33 seconds.

Charles turned around, carefully; behind them, the sandy shore led away into rolling hills covered in scrub brush, and the occasional tree. Heavy green just visible on the left edge of the horizon suggested forest, and to the right, a sudden rocky bluff rising far above the hills, with some manner of building on its top.

The building was almost certain to be some kind of trap, but it was the only shelter in sight, and if the Gamemakers had given them shelter they were certain to need it. Leading everyone toward the building was a preliminary plan, at least.

19 seconds.

Several of the Allies were looking steadfastly at him, as if to keep themselves from being tempted by the Cornucopia's bounty. Others – John, Alex, even Moira – still seemed to be considering their options, eyeing the nearest items and the nearest tributes that might be a threat.

_Keep to the plan,_ he wanted to say, to beg, to scream. _There's a reason they call this the bloodbath. Keep to the plan!_

Across the semicircle, Erik was standing tense and still, his mouth grim, glaring at Sebastian Shaw. Sebastian was looking from the piles of weapons to the other tributes with calculating, proprietary glee. His gaze caught Charles's, and he winked.

7 seconds.

The District 2 girl, Clove, was looking Charles's direction, too – no, past him to Raven. And Raven was looking fixedly at the nearest of the Cornucopia's offerings, a bright orange backpack only a few yards away.

_No. Raven, no, Raven, no—!_

0 seconds.

The beach exploded, twenty-four bodies moving in twenty-four directions, and Charles's part in this was to lead the others _away, away,_ as fast as possible, and instead he was standing frozen because Raven had darted forward, straight for the orange backpack.

_"Raven!"_

The boy from 9 reached it at the same moment and tackled Raven, hands at her throat. Moira was standing beside Charles's platform, shouting something. Sebastian and Frost already had axes. Raven kicked and thrashed. In the corner of his eye, Azazel grinned and ran a sword through the girl from 3. Other Allies had followed Raven's example; he saw Alex take a blow from one of the Careers. Somehow Charles's brain was still counting seconds – 7, 8, 9…

The boy attacking Raven suddenly rolled off her, a knife sticking out of his back; Clove stepped closer, ready to throw her next knife at Raven. Charles ran forward but someone – Sean? – yanked him back. Raven shielded herself with the backpack, letting it catch the knife, then scrabbled to her feet and ran toward Charles. 

—11, 12, 13—

This had already gone so wrong, so wrong, the plan had been to run for cover before the others could react and now at least half the Careers were looking at them, at the gathering of tributes inexplicably hovering around Charles, and were running toward them with blood on their weapons.

"This way!" Charles shouted, fifteen precious seconds later than he should have, and grabbed at whoever was nearest, shoving them in the vague direction of the building on the bluff. "Stay together and run!"

They ran, Charles lingering the extra half-second to grab Raven by the arm and he wanted to _scream_ at her. There was blood speckled on her face and others running behind them, some of them Allies, no time to wait. "Run for the building on the bluff! Stay together!"

They were off the sand, now, and into the scrubby vegetation of the hills, and going uphill slowed them all. Charles's grip on Raven's arm hurt his own hand, he was surely hurting her, but right now he didn't care. He dragged her up through the crowd – he was supposed to be the leader, he ought to get to the front and _lead_ if he could, even if his chest and legs were already burning.

A scream echoed from the beach as he reached the top of the hill, and he looked back reflexively. One, two, three bodies on the sand, Alex just reaching the bottom of the hill half-supported by Darwin. One figure disappearing into the shadows of the forest, off to the side – Foxface? He didn't see Erik or the Careers. Was that movement inside the Cornucopia?

Charles didn't wait to see, letting the beach disappear from view as he kept running.

***

The valuable items were always those closest to the Cornucopia, so Erik didn't waste time with the outlying odds and ends. The moment the gong sounded, he bolted for the mouth of the horn. That would be the Careers' plan, too, of course; he was counting on it. Beat them at their own game.

He expected he'd have to dodge attacks and push past other tributes, but to his surprise he ran almost unimpeded, delayed only by the uneven sand underfoot and one boy who seemed to want to fight him over a duffel bag. Erik sidestepped him and ran on. Behind him he could hear noise, shouting, but he didn't look back. One voice he could not fail to recognize screamed _"Raven!"_ but he didn't look back.

He reached the mouth of the Cornucopia, ducked into its shady interior – tripped, in the sudden dimness, on the strap of a bag, and fell onto an axe blade. 

For a long moment he just lay there and stared. A spiraling cut around his calf was already pouring blood down his leg, soaking into his pants and sock. Not deep, he thought, but more than enough to impair mobility, shatter focus. He'd seen a hundred tributes die over less.

No. It couldn't be over this quickly. This was impossible.

Sounds of shouting and movement continued unabated outside the Cornucopia – and closer, as the Careers reached it and started grabbing weapons. Erik slid behind a crate.

He could still do this, he told himself, pressing his back to the crate and drawing his legs painfully up to his chest. He had to move quickly, come up behind the Careers, before blood loss caught up to him. He felt a fierce grin split his face. President Shaw's son, dead at the Cornucopia, one of those first-ten-minutes casualties that no one remembered. It would be perfect.

He forced himself onto his feet, despite the pain, and picked up a sword. He couldn't see Sebastian, but the tributes from 4 were tearing open a crate – the girl with the crest of white hair, the boy who never spoke.

How strange, part of him thought. He had known from the beginning that he would have to kill other tributes. He hadn't let it bother him – they were all going to die anyway – and he would have thought Careers would bother him least of all. Somehow he hadn't realized it would involve choosing to kill individual people. Part of him was shaken, resistant, unhappy.

The other part of him was already swinging the sword.

The boy saw him at the last instant, ducked the sword and came back up with a long knife, which Erik barely dodged. His injured leg buckled; Erik grabbed the nearest crate to stay upright as the girl turned toward the noise. He just managed to block her sword before it went through his ribs.

They were all, at least, equally hampered by the tight quarters; Erik tipped a crate between them, dodging both blades, got in a slash across the girl's shoulder, nearly tripped again as he tried to back up a step. Backing up, he realized, would only get him cornered inside the Cornucopia. He fought his way forward, crashing an elbow into the boy's face. If he could get between them and the entrance—

He managed it, after a moment's clumsy but furious fighting, felt sunlight on his back – and the subliminal air-motion of an incoming weapon. He ducked just as an axe swept through where his head had been, spun and slashed out at his attacker. Azazel, blood-spattered and grinning, jumped back with contemptuous ease, the sword in his other hand already sweeping toward Erik.

The pain in his leg faded, crowded out of Erik's consciousness as he fought Azazel on one side, the pair from 4 on the other, no time to plan or think or _breathe._ He'd been in street fights before, plenty of them, and that was doubtless the only reason he was still alive – but the Careers had been trained for real combat, and none of them had a leg leaving red streaks in the sand. Any moment now, he would falter, just a little, and that would be it. Erik wanted to scream with pure frustration. _This was not how it was supposed to go._

They backed him out into the water, waves shoving at the backs of his legs, salt stinging like _pure fire_ in his wound – they backed him into the water, and then withdrew.

Erik frowned, chest heaving, sword ready, but they stayed back, looking down at the water in alarm.

The water was burning. It wasn't just salt in his wound, the water itself was _burning his skin,_ dissolving his trouser legs – he darted forward a few steps, so that the water only lapped against his feet. He could still hear the hiss of it eating at his boots.

For a moment, they all stared at each other. Azazel shifted and grimaced, his legs liberally splashed. The girl looked horrified.

"Come out," she said to Erik, "and we'll kill you quick. I'm in no hurry to watch you melt."

Erik didn't respond; he'd take his chances with the water before he'd _surrender._

Beyond the tributes watching him, he could see Sebastian and Frost, jabbing spears into the girl from 7. There was no one else standing, and only two other bodies. Not much of a bloodbath – where had everyone gone? A scream of frustration caught his ear; Clove stood at the foot of the first hill to rise from the sand, empty-handed as a figure disappeared down the other side.

Whatever. The water was steadily eating through his boots, and his leg was trembling with the strain of holding him up. He had to think of something fast.

His gaze landed on the nearest launching platform, now obsolete, its purpose done – but its explosives assumedly still in place. Given time, maybe a few makeshift tools, it was possible he could do something with that. But the Careers were hardly going to give him—

Or would they?

Erik bared his teeth in a smile. "You're not going to kill me."

"No?" Azazel said.

"No. Because I've worked in factory maintenance for the last three years. I know my way around machinery. And I can make those—" he pointed to the platforms with his sword "—blow up wherever, whenever, and whoever you want."

The three of them exchanged thoughtful glances. Clove was approaching now, looking eager for blood; better push them to an agreement before she could weigh in. "I'm not much of a threat with this leg," he pointed out. "Couldn't get away from the rest of you if I decided to stab someone in the back. I'd rather bet on outlasting you. Or you can watch me melt," he added, when they still hesitated. "I won't do you much good that way."

"He can lead us to Charles," Ororo murmured to the others, low enough that Erik probably wasn't supposed to hear. "You saw how they were—"

"Then why isn't he with Charles now?" Azazel said. "I don't like it. It could be some kind of set-up."

The long-haired boy said nothing, but the others seemed to gather something from his expression.

"We can always kill him later," the girl said. She sheathed her sword and held out a hand. "Get up here and put a bandage on that leg before you pass out."


	13. Ruins

They found an apple tree planted randomly on a scrubby hillside, big enough to give decent shade, and sent a few people up its branches to gather fruit while the others let their trembling legs rest. Charles checked Raven over for injuries, and cleaned the blood from her face, flatly ignoring her protests.

"Can we trust these apples?" Hank said, squinting at the one Jean had dropped down to him.

"Let me see." Angel examined the apple closely, sniffing and poking. "It looks all right. And trust me, I see a lot of apples. Picking them all day every day."

Raven plucked it from Angel's hand and, to Charles's horror, took a bite. "Tastes fine," she said around her mouthful. She swallowed and added, "Look, not dead yet."

Everyone watched Raven closely for a few minutes, but when she showed no ill effects, they dug in – seeking the juice for their parched throats more than the fruit itself.

_We do have to eat sometime,_ Charles sighed. _There won't be anything that the Gamemakers couldn't have poisoned if they wanted to._ He bit into an apple, closed his eyes briefly in appreciation, then forced himself onto his feet to take a headcount. He overheard more than one person saying _"I actually survived the Cornucopia. I can't believe it. I'm still alive."_

"Jean!" he called up into the branches. "Do you see anyone following us?"

"No Careers," Jean replied. "I see Darwin and the other one, the boy that tried to grab supplies. He's hurt but Darwin's helping him walk."

They waited for Darwin and Alex to catch up. Alex had managed to hold onto a backpack, which fortunately contained some medical supplies that they used to treat the wounds on his arm, leg, and hip. Between Alex and Raven, they had bandages and antibiotic ointment, two water bottles, a sleeping bag, a rope, two packs of dried meat strips, two boxes of matches, and a pair of night vision glasses. And as many apples as they could carry.

Not nearly enough to support 12 people, even overnight. But they had known they would have to acquire supplies, they had a plan for that. First, they had to find a place to set up camp, and the sun was already past its zenith. How long would the days be, here? As long or short as the Gamemakers wanted them, of course.

"Back on your feet, everyone," Charles called, and began leading them toward the building on the bluff.

 

The _ruins_ on the bluff, as it turned out; the Gamemakers had done quite a good job making it look as if the structure had been crumbling and abandoned for decades. The place was practically a castle – three stories of crumbling, ivy-draped brick, with towers that rose even higher – but in many places the walls and roof were so damaged that portions were uninhabitable or simply gone. There would certainly be room for twelve kids to sleep – too much room, to be honest. The possibilities of getting lost or ambushed inside were compelling. But dark clouds were rolling in over the slowly-sinking sun; as Charles had suspected, the Gamemakers meant to make sure they went inside. At least they would have an excellent view of their surroundings from up here; no one could approach the bluff unseen.

First, of course, they would have to get across the castle's moat.

Water looped around the ruins, deep and rushing and surely impossible in any natural setting. It was further across than Charles could throw a stone – he tested it – but not by very much. How very fortunate that they'd all had swimming lessons at the Training Center. If only those lessons had involved ice-cold water with a powerful current.

Raven was all for leaping right in, but Charles wouldn't hear of it. Sean declared himself the strongest swimmer, and swam across first, towing the rope. They all watched with bated breath, but though he ended up taking quite a diagonal path, due to the current, he made it safely to the other side. He held the rope, then, and Levine the other end, while the rest clung to it as they made their way across, and hauled Levine in after them.

So they were all drenched and shivering before they made it to the front door, and Charles knew that could be a death sentence, come nightfall. If the temperature didn't plunge ridiculously the moment the sun went down, Charles would eat his boots. Still, they had to proceed with caution.

The tributes from 10 and 11 – Moira and Levine, Angel and Darwin – volunteered to check the ruins before anyone else went inside. The rest of them spent the better part of an hour shivering in the overgrown grass, the sun slowly sinking. They heard shouts, once or twice, and flurries of movement, crashes and thumps. Charles bit down hard on the urge to go in after them; he would likely be more hindrance than help, and those outside might need him. They'd heard no cannons yet. Everything was fine.

At last the volunteers came out again, dirty and scraped, having encountered and disabled no less than four booby traps. They couldn't swear there were no more. But the sun was disappearing, not just behind the horizon, but behind a layer of clouds that gave off flashes of lightning. They had to have shelter.

"Inside," Charles said. "Stay together and don't wander. Just stay in the foyer."

They settled just inside the door, where some of the windows still had glass, and the cold stone floor was covered by the ragged remains of a carpet. The door had barely closed behind them when the storm began.

***

Frost and Clove didn't seem to mind that Erik had been spared – they visibly sized him up as a non-threat, then murmured between themselves about whether he could lead them to Charles. (Why did everyone think he was at all connected to Charles?) Shaw, on the other hand, argued fiercely about it with Ororo while Azazel bandaged Erik's leg.

"We will kill you eventually, you know," Azazel said under his breath, almost cheerfully.

Erik bared his teeth. "You'll try."

Azazel chuckled and patted his injured leg, painfully.

"You trying to make a pet out of him, Ororo?" Shaw shouted. "It's the Mutant Games, not a slumber party! You know what happens to pets in the Games?"

He turned and ran at Erik, sword-first, but Erik was ready. Pushing off with his good leg, he tackled Shaw at the knees, and within a very few seconds, had him on his back with his own sword pricking the underside of his chin.

"You're one to talk about pets, Junior," Erik said. "Or do you expect anyone to believe you don't have the odds slanted in your favor?"

Was there a camera on him now? he wondered. The Gamemakers would be all over something like this, normally. Would they edit out the accusation of corruption?

"You gonna actually do anything with that sword?" Shaw said, seeming unperturbed. "Or maybe you don't know how? I guess all you have to fight with in District 8 is your own teeth and claws, like any other animal."

Erik leaned forward, blood beading on the tip of the sword, just as a sharp edge made itself quietly known against the side of his own neck.

"We had an agreement," Azazel reminded him.

Erik dragged in a breath through flared nostrils, glaring down at Shaw, who stared back up with a cheerful sort of sneer. 

"You're a pampered bully," Erik said. "You've been hand-fed everything I've had to fight for – yes, tooth and claw, like an animal. You may be the Capitol's darling, the President's _pet,"_ he lingered lovingly over the word, "but you will, as you said, find out what happens to pets in the arena." With that, he withdrew the sword and got to his feet, swallowing a gasp of pain, and refused to limp as he walked out of the Cornucopia and began prying up a platform.

***

About the time Erik got the first land mine disconnected, Clove and Azazel announced they were going off to hunt stragglers; at least two tributes had run off into the forest instead of joining the other group, and they ought to be easy pickings.

"I'll pass," Frost drawled, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky. "Plenty of time to kill people once it stops raining."

Sure enough, Clove and Azazel had hardly disappeared into the treeline before the downpour began, hard and sudden as a tap being turned – which of course was more or less the truth. Erik hurried to drag himself and the explosive into the horn, while the other Careers did the same with what supplies were still in the open. Then, with the temperature dropping rapidly, they started a fire at the mouth of the horn. No need to worry about it drawing attention; only a blithering fool would wander up to the Cornucopia—

Erik hadn't even finished the thought when a figure darted around the fire, grabbed a bag of dehydrated soup packets off the nearest crate, and ran off, whooping.

Stunned silence for a heartbeat, then Erik burst out laughing. The Careers leaped to their collective feet, swearing and snarling; Shaw and Ororo ran off into the dark and rain after the thief, blades flashing.

Janos and Frost were still arguing over whether to follow or stay behind (to the extent that silent Janos could be said to argue) when a second figure – this one smaller, Jubilee if Erik remembered right – dashed in, grabbed a packet of dried fruit, and tossed them all a dazzling smile before running off. Her departure flung mud across Frost's face; with a scream of anger, she chased after the girl, spear in hand. Janos followed after.

Erik chuckled to himself and drew a little closer to the fire, swallowing a pained grunt as he resettled his aching leg. He took care not to jostle the half-assembled explosive next to him. "Good luck to you," he murmured to the thieves. They'd evaded his reluctant allies this long, judging by the lack of cannon fire. They hadn't had a single cannon go off in the arena yet, since the Gamemakers didn't sound it for bloodbath deaths. Erik was still for a moment, listening.

Instead of a cannon, he heard something else – whispers and furtive footsteps.

"Grab as much as you can carry, but drop it to run if you have to. Focus on food, blankets—" 

Several figures ducked into the Cornucopia, and stopped in their tracks at the sight of Erik. Firelight flickered over their faces, brightest on the boy in front – Charles. Of course it would be Charles.

Silence for a long, tense moment. Erik could have a hand on a sword or spear as quick as breathing, and none of the intruders were armed. But they did outnumber him, and there was his leg to consider.

He could pretend that indecision was what held him immobile, but in truth he simply couldn't look away from Charles.

And vice versa, perhaps, because Charles didn't break eye contact even as he stepped to the side and bent to pick up a sword – a _gladius,_ like he'd practiced with at the Training Center. He took a few steps toward Erik, blade ready, putting himself between Erik and the others.

"Grab as much as you can carry, and go," Charles said to his friends, still not looking away from Erik.

"But—"

"I'll be right behind you. Go!"

The others surged into motion, snatching up backpacks and sleeping bags, food and medicine and whatever weapons came to hand.

"Charles," one of them said, when they had all they could easily carry.

"Go."

Nervously, glancing from Charles to the darkness that might hold returning Careers, they went.

As soon as they were out of sight, Charles lowered the sword and rushed to Erik's side, dropping to his knees beside him.

"What—" Erik scrambled backward, reaching for a weapon, but Charles didn't seem to notice. He was examining the blood-soaked bandages on Erik's leg.

"Erik, what _happened?_ What are you doing here with them? How bad are you hurt? Let me see—"

Erik snatched his leg out of Charles's hands, and gasped an obscenity at the resulting pain. "Has it even occurred to you that I could kill you? I can think of three ways to break your neck—"

"You won't."

_Curse_ this boy. "The others certainly will, and they'll be back any moment."

"Come with us." He stood, held out a hand to help him up. "You have to come with us, they'll kill you if they come back and you've let us rob you."

Rage swept through Erik's body. "I'm _not_ letting you rob me," he said, and tackled Charles at the knees.

The boy fought back fiercer than Erik would have expected. Sand flew into Erik's face, scattered supplies dug into his back, Charles kicked and clawed and nearly got him in a headlock. Erik threw his head back, trying to break Charles's nose – only got him in the forehead, but it dazed him enough for Erik to flip and get him pinned at last.

And stay there, both breathing hard, faces inches apart. Charles strained against Erik's grip on his wrists for a moment – and then stopped, just staring up at him wide-eyed.

There was a resounding silence in Erik's mind, where thoughts, plans, decisions should have been. Because the only thoughts he had right now were – were not thoughts he could have.

Erik glanced up at a noise from outside the Cornucopia – and Charles took advantage of the distraction to deliver a solid kick to Erik's wounded leg, throw him off, and run.

Shaw met him at the entrance with a sword.

Erik jumped to his feet with a shout – to whom? for what purpose? – but Charles was already ducking the sword's swing, his feet sliding out from under him in the sand. Shaw's blade chopped downward, but Charles snatched a knife from the spilled assortment of weapons and drove it through Sebastian's foot. Shaw howled and nearly dropped the sword entirely; it glanced off Charles's back, hardly leaving a mark. Charles scrambled to his feet and ran.

Screaming incoherently, Shaw snatched the knife out of his foot and threw it, then the nearest water bottle, then – the land mine Erik had been examining.

Erik tried to shout _"Don't!"_ but before the sound left his mouth, he and Shaw were both being lifted and thrown backward into the Cornucopia on a wave of heat and noise – all absorbed into sudden black silence when Erik's head hit the wall.

 

When he came to, his ears were ringing, his surroundings swooping in slow circles. He couldn't have been out for very long, he supposed – bits of fire still burned in the blasted remains of their supplies – but long enough for the rain to stop. He could see movement outside the Cornucopia, but he couldn't focus his eyes on it yet.

It had only been one explosive, designed to demolish a single tribute and leave the ones on the nearest platforms unhurt. He was lucky, very lucky. Was there any chance Shaw had been less lucky?

Sadly, no. As Erik convinced his body to sit up, he saw that the motion outside was Shaw having a temper tantrum, and the others watching with varying degrees of alarm or amusement. It was hard to say when they were all drenched, but Frost seemed to have blood on her clothes.

Erik climbed to his feet, swaying a bit. Had Charles been far enough away to survive the explosion? What did he care either way?

_"You!"_ Shaw turned on him with a snarl, voice barely audible through the ringing in Erik's ears. "Alive after all! This is your doing—"

"I promised you a bomb," Erik said roughly, clutching the nearest crate to stay upright, and barely dodging the flaming debris stuck to it. "I delivered. You should have thrown it farther."

Shaw seemed about to boil over, and Erik knew he longed to kill him, but in fact Erik _had_ delivered. Therefore, he might still be useful.

"Get out there," Shaw said between gritted teeth, "and find those rotten thieves, and bring me their _heads,_ if you want to keep yours."

***

Charles was tumbled head-over-heels across the sand by the explosion – and what in the world had _exploded?_ – but he didn't let it slow him down, scrambling back to his feet and up the hill before the last echo had died away.

He picked his way carefully along in the fading light, following the distant black shape of the bluff. He was still soaked from the rainstorm, and as he'd predicted, the air was getting rapidly colder; he rubbed at the goosebumps on his arms and hoped the others had grabbed enough blankets and coats. He himself would be coming back empty-handed, and he wished he'd at least thought to pull that knife back out of Sebastian's foot, but he was lucky enough to be alive that he declined to beat himself—

Was that a cannon?

He stopped in place for a moment, heart suddenly pounding. Erik and Sebastian had been much closer to the explosion than he had. _Please be Sebastian, please be Sebastian..._ Perhaps it hadn't been a cannon at all, but a secondary explosion? He climbed quickly to the top of the hill he was scaling, and looked back toward the Cornucopia.

The horn itself looked about half blasted-apart, surrounded by bits of fiery debris. The other Careers, doubtless drawn back by the noise, were rushing into sight; Charles quickly ducked down, and continued toward the ruins.

No particular sign of a second explosion, so probably a cannon. _Maybe it was Sebastian._

But when he reached the ruins, and saw Sean staring hollow-eyed into the fire, he knew before he was told that it was Jubilee. 

***

They didn't find Charles, or any of his light-fingered allies.

They found Greta.

The orange flicker of a fire carried all the way out of the forest, catching Ororo's attention first as she, Erik, Azazel, and Janos poked through the brush looking for tracks. The storm had gone but the temperature was falling fast; Erik doubted Greta would have made it through the night without a fire anyway, and it was rather impressive that she got it going in such a wet environment. It was just her bad luck that the Careers caught sight of it.

Erik didn't have time to intervene; by the time they were close enough for him to tell who it was, Azazel was already leaping forward. For all that he did it with a wild grin and a shout of joy, Azazel was quick and efficient; Greta hardly had time to scream. Shaw or Frost, Erik felt sure, would have played with their catch rather more. There was that, at least.

While the others went through Greta's things, Erik leaned heavily against a tree, looking out into the darkness, anywhere but at his dead District partner. Would he have intervened, given the chance? He'd promised himself he'd do her no harm personally, but that didn't mean protecting her from others. There was no reason to feel guilt, or grief, or anything at all. He'd known from the start she had to die. They all did. 

Everyone but him.

 

The last bits of Greta's fire were still visible through the trees when Ororo stopped walking, Erik nearly running into her back.

"No cannon," she said.

Azazel swore. "Not dead yet."

"I'll take care of it," Erik said, surprising himself.

They all looked at him curiously – all but Ororo, who nodded slowly. "I'd forgotten. She was from 8."

Erik turned away before anyone could react to that, checking the knife strapped to his belt.

Greta had moved since they left her, tried to drag herself – where? Toward what? She looked up at Erik, eyes glassy and wild, and tried to talk, breath rasping and gurgling horribly in the throat wound that really should have killed her instantly.

"It's okay," Erik said, "I'm not going to hurt you," as if it could possibly be okay, as if it could matter now whether he hurt her. Slowly, favoring his wounded leg, he lowered himself to the ground at her side, and forced himself to really look at her. Bleeding from the throat, chest, and abdomen, blood in her mouth and on her hands. The fire she'd built was dying down; that had to be why Erik was shivering.

He didn't know what to do. He had a knife, he could send her on her way, quick and clean. It ought to be merciful, and yet it seemed cruel, to deny her her last moments, however painful. Edie, he thought suddenly, would have held her hand, tried to comfort her. She would have known how to do that, but Erik didn't.

Greta looked beyond him, in the direction she'd been trying to crawl, and her blood-wet hand inched forward. Following her gaze, Erik saw something glimmering in the dirt; a thimble, of the sort dispensed at the textile factories to those few who did hand-work. He handed it to Greta, who clutched it tight against her chest.

"Your token?"

She nodded, and choked a barely-recognizable word. "Mother's."

The mother that might be watching right now, at home in her tenement. Erik swallowed hard, one hand forming a trembling fist.

"I'm going to win," he said at last. "District 8 will win. Your family will get the extra food." That seemed the only possible comfort he could offer.

Incredibly, she laughed, an awful gurgling sound. She said something – Erik wasn't sure what. He told himself he wasn't sure what.

It sounded like _"No one wins."_

The cannon sounded a moment later.

***  
Talk had been hushed and minimal since the return of the supply raid – since the loss of Jubilee. Few had actually known her well, of course – few of them knew _anyone_ well – but somehow that didn't dampen the shock. Charles supposed they had all somehow hoped, as he had, that this alliance would save them. Somehow, because they were the good guys, _somehow_ they would all make it. Charles wished it had at least taken longer for that to be proven wrong.

_My fault. My plan. My doing. My fault and a girl who trusted me is dead._

He walked back and forth through the foyer where everyone was getting ready to sleep, rationing out what little food and water they had, assigning people to share blankets, share sleeping bags, curl up together on the bare floor. Sean and Angel had volunteered for first sentry duty; when they got too tired they were to wake Charles and Hank.

But no one was going to sleep yet. There was one more thing to wait for. And sure enough, it came as soon as the daylight had died away completely. The Anthem, triumphant and brassy and hideous. Everyone in the ruins trailed outside, blankets clutched around their shoulders, and looked up at the faces appearing against the dark sky. 

The girl from 3. Then Jubilee. The girl from 7. Greta, the girl from 8 – Charles tensed, but Erik's face remained absent. The boy from 9, who had fought Raven for the backpack at the Cornucopia.

And the music and lights faded away.

Five fatalities on the first day was probably a historic low for the Mutant Games. Charles tried to feel good about that, with Sean and Raven's pale, haunted faces in the periphery of his vision.

 

Charles slept poorly, and woke the instant he was touched. His turn for sentry duty? But no, it was something more. Angel, leaning over him, looked frightened.

"What is it?" Charles sat up, careful not to jostle Raven – but Raven was already waking, curling in on herself and whimpering.

"I feel weird," Angel said, breathing hard and rubbing her arms as if her skin crawled. "So does Sean. I think everyone does. Look."

The foyer's carpet of sleeping tributes was in slow, restless motion, Charles realized, people waking one by one to clutch their heads or stomachs, gasping and moaning in pain. And he didn't feel at all well himself; nauseous and shaky, with a stabbing headache that sharpened with every heartbeat. He gasped and rubbed at his temple.

"Charles, what's happening?" Raven said, and Charles jumped back. For a moment her eyes had flickered bright gold, lamp-like in the darkness. And her skin… the texture of her skin was changing.

"Our mutations," he realized. "We've survived the first twelve hours. Our mutations are kicking in."


	14. Mutations

By the time sunlight crept over the acid sea to the sand, Erik had worn through enough hours of pain and writhing to be almost asleep again, aching and exhausted. He hadn't died of mutagen reaction, that was the good news. The bad news was that no one else had, either. He'd have been disappointed to lose his chance to kill Sebastian himself, but it might have been worth it to think of President Shaw's devastation and guilt, watching his son's body twist in on itself. Ah well.

"On your feet, soldiers! Let's find out what prizes we've won!"

Erik glared disbelievingly up at Shaw, who sounded as cheerful and alert as if he'd risen from a featherbed at noon.

"Come over here and say that again," Frost muttered, "and I will be one step closer to winning." Her voice sounded strange, and Erik sat up enough to look over at her. He felt his jaw drop. Frost's body was no longer pale flesh and blonde hair, but a construction of pure – crystal? Diamond? As Erik watched, she sat up with a hand to her head, sunlight gleaming and glittering through her, tiny rainbows sparking across the sand.

Shaw just laughed and started handing out food and water. Determined not to show weakness, Erik started forcing down some of the calories his body surely needed.

"This feels very strange," Azazel said, as he flicked his… _new tail_ back and forth experimentally. It had a wicked point, and Erik was frankly jealous. He could have made good use of an extra, armed appendage. Azazel's skin had also turned devil-red; were the Gamemakers having a bit of a joke over the boy's name?

No one else, he saw as the others began to move about, had had as dramatic a change as Frost and Azazel. Their powers were not immediately apparent, nor was his. He could feel it, though, lurking at the edge of his perception – a new dimension to the world, a dark deep thing in his veins begging to be known and used.

Grinning and cheerful, Shaw advised them to eat heartily, move around to loosen their muscles, take a few of the painkillers they'd found in the supplies – then close their eyes and breathe, reach inside themselves for their new powers.

Almost, Erik thought, as if someone had given him a crash course beforehand, on how to handle this situation. The joys of being the President's son. It burned in Erik's stomach, but he wasn't about to ignore whatever advantage Shaw could give him. The non-Career tributes were probably still shivering and puking in their beds.

Within the hour, Janos and Ororo had gone off to the edge of the water to experiment with their new powers, which seemed to be wind or weather-related. Frost went back to bed with a migraine, her new diamond form shimmering in and out unpredictably. Though no one had said it aloud, it seemed likely that Clove was one of the unlucky tributes who didn't react to the mutagen; she'd experienced far less discomfort during the night, had no apparent aches or exhaustion this morning, and only frowned in confusion at Shaw's instructions on reaching for the new power inside. Erik, watching her test her knife-throwing against Azazel's fledgling teleportation attempts, considered her hardly less dangerous for it.

"That leaves you, Erik," Shaw said, clapping a companionable arm on Erik's shoulder. "What can you do?"

Erik shrugged the hand off his shoulder and gritted his teeth, reaching once more for that enigmatic well of power inside him, that insistent force trying so hard to get out, that he could not seem to grip.

"Now, now. There's no reason to be ashamed that everyone else has figured it out before you. Sometimes, it takes some sort of _jolt_ to get a mutation properly rolling." He studied Erik for a moment, then punched him in the gut.

Caught off guard, Erik doubled over with a choked sound, tried to turn it into a head-butt.

"None of that, now," Shaw said, dancing out of range. "That won't help you. You want to hurt me? Do it with your _power."_

And Erik could feel that power, thrumming even closer to the surface, just out of reach, _still out of reach—_

Shaw circled around to deliver a hard kick to Erik's backside, nearly knocking him flat, and Erik turned with a snarl, his body vibrating with the need to tear him apart. _Almost – almost—_

"Not quite doing it, huh? Let's try something else." Shaw stepped closer, not for a blow, and for a sickening moment Erik thought he might embrace him – but instead Shaw dipped a hand into Erik's pocket, and spun away with Edie's coin in his hand.

"I know what this is," he said. "I remember watching her die. Your sister. I remember my father applauding."

Rage seared Erik's nerves. "Give it back."

Shaw flipped it in the air, caught it, smiled. _"Take_ it back."

Erik threw out a hand toward the coin, reached with all the force of his anger and fear and hatred and need – and felt the well of power burst into full bloom at last. _Metal._ He could feel the metal around them, swords and spears and arrow-tips, rivers of magnetic energy, as clear as if they were part of his own body. An extra, armed appendage.

Controlling it, though – that was like trying to harness a hurricane. Erik felt a scream rip from his throat as metal bent, not to his will, but to the sheer force of his emotion. Weapons and food-tins and tent supports flashed in the sunlight as they left the ground, left their cases, left the other tributes' hands and flew to him, circling him like bright, deadly birds.

He would have sworn on his life that more than one piece of metal struck Shaw, but he gave no hint of pain or fear, only stood watching the show with a wide smile. The coin remained in his hand.

How was that possible? Erik redoubled his focus. The coin was so _small,_ and the magnetism around it so faint – but the power inside him felt endless, and he threw all of it, every drop, at the coin. The metal walls of the Cornucopia crumpled, shrieking. The coin didn't move.

The limitless well of power – hit its limit, between one breath and the next. The circling weapons dropped, a deadly rain, and Erik fell to his knees, gasping and empty and raw. The Careers were all watching from a safe distance, open-mouthed.

Shaw chuckled, looking around at the mess Erik had made as though it were a present just for him. "Yes, you're going to be very useful, Erik. If we can keep you angry enough." He stepped forward and pressed the coin into Erik's hand. "Fortunately, that shouldn't be hard."

 

***

"That's wonderful, Hank!" Charles called, smiling so hard his face hurt, as Hank reached the top of the outer wall. Hank's reply was only a deep, rumbling noise in his chest, and a _whoof_ of air as he dropped back to the ground at Charles's side. He lifted his hands – paws, really – and regarded the gleaming claws with an unsettled expression.

"If the Careers catch sight of me," he said, "maybe I'll scare them to death." Mutation had made his voice deeper and rougher, but it was still recognizable – the only part of him that was, really, under the blue fur and muscles.

Charles put a hand to his shoulder. "My friend, you have been given a fantastically useful mutation. Don't knock it."

"I think you look amazing," Raven said, stroking the fur on his arm. The few inches of visible skin around Hank's nose and eyes darkened – a blush?

Raven's appearance had changed a good deal as well, and Charles was trying hard not to be unnerved by his sister's familiar voice coming from this otherworldly creature with blue scales, glowing eyes and scarlet hair. _It won't be forever,_ he reminded himself, _once she wins they'll change her back to normal._ But he wouldn't be there to see it…

They'd all spent the morning struggling to recover from a night of violent illness and pain, terrified the Careers would attack them in their vulnerability, but Charles supposed they couldn't have been much better off, really. In any case a few hours rest and rehydration had done a lot to set them all right, especially with the excitement of figuring out everyone's new powers. All Charles had to show so far was a magnificent headache, but Jean had discovered she could move things with her mind, and Angel had _wings._ Darwin was rivaling Logan's can't-lose mutation, his body adapting instantly to shield him from any kind of blow or attack; half the group was soon occupied throwing stones or swinging sticks at him while he happily shouted "Harder!"

Charles reluctantly slunk away from the gathering as it grew louder, rubbing at his aching temples, and found John sitting in the grass by the river, flipping his shark lighter open and closed.

"Any luck, John?"

"No. I can feel it, but I can't get a _grip_ on it." He snapped the lighter open and shut, open and shut.

"I'm surprised they let you keep that," Charles said, settling down beside him. "I thought tokens couldn't be weapons?"

"They took the fuel out." John sounded disgusted. "Said I—"

A silver parachute drifted down into his lap before he could finish the sentence. For a moment they both gaped at it. Then John tore the package open, and lifted free a tiny vial of fluid.

"What's that?"

John grinned wildly and fumbled with the lighter, fitting the little vial into it. This time, when he flicked it open, a little flame rose from it – and rose, and rose, John's eyes widening.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's _it!"_

Whoops and cheers drifted over from behind them, and Charles turned to see a number of silver parachutes descending around the ruins. With a roar and sweep of his hand, John sent a celebratory plume of fire billowing into the sky

-

Most of the parachutes turned out to be carrying blankets or food, and there was a great deal of excitement – Angel bouncing and hovering with her new wings, Sean's shouts making people wince and cover their ears – as the group distributed everyone a share, regardless of who the package had been sent for. Charles didn't even have to prompt them. Pride and happiness bubbled in his chest as he let Raven load his arms with his own new blanket and a paper-wrapped hunk of cheese.

_Yes. This is working. We can do this._

He joined Moira and Levine on the topmost battlement of the ruins as the sun went down on their first full day in the Arena. Levine's mutation had given him superhuman eyesight, so he'd been put in charge of keeping watch.

"Can you see the Cornucopia?" Moira asked, absently offering Charles a share of her raisins, which he accepted.

"Yep. I can see people moving around it – I think they're building a fire."

"Still seven of them?"

"Yeah."

"Quite the group," Charles murmured. Last year's Career Pack had been only four.

The Careers didn't feel much like a threat yet; the Alliance had an excellent position on top of the bluff, hard to sneak up on, and no reason to leave it. Here they had shelter, food, fresh water –they were worlds away from most tributes' situations at this point in the Game. Yes, they'd lost Jubilee, and Alex was still suffering with his wounds, but on the whole things were good, too good to last. The Gamemakers would never let it last.

"I'm still pretty shocked your friend Erik threw in with the Careers," Moira said, knocking Charles out of his thought. "After the way… well, you know."

"No, I don't know. What do you mean?"

Moira raised her eyebrows. "I just… thought you two were friendly, is all." _Friendly, ha. You looked like you wanted to jump each other ten ways to Tuesday._

"I beg your pardon?" Charles stared at Moira's face, her lips – which had not moved at all during that last remark.

Moira seemed confused by the strength of his reaction. "Well, yeah. I mean, we all heard about him saving your skin." And now there was an image, _skin,_ fair and freckled, a wistful _too bad he likes boys…_

"Oh," Charles breathed, looking around as a new world seemed to blossom him – Levine testing his sight and wanting to go home, Alex cooking soup and wishing he'd met Darwin somewhere else anywhere else, Jean and Raven brushing Hank's fur which felt _amazing—_

"Charles?" Moira asked, giving off waves of curiosity, bemusement, unease.

"I'm fine." Charles gave a breathless laugh. "I think I finally figured out what my mutation is."

***

Any time Erik tried to eat, Shaw threw knives at him. When he dozed off, Shaw dropped an axe on him. They didn't have much water, only what the Cornucopia crates had contained; Shaw denied Erik access to any until he could get it for himself, floating a tin cup across the campsite without dumping it along the way. It took hours, and left Erik sweaty and shaking.

But he got the water, and he stopped the axe, and he deflected the knives, even if he had to twist the edges away from his skin in the process, they were so close.

"I'm helping you, admit it," Shaw said smugly, whenever Erik glared, cursed, swore he'd break Shaw's legs. "You'd never have progressed this quickly on your own."

It was true, Erik knew it. It was the only reason he hadn't killed Shaw already. But it wouldn't keep him from killing him later, and enjoying every second of the process.

***

Charles and his allies bedded down to a much more comfortable night than the previous; there were enough blankets now to go around, though many still chose to sleep in pairs, with one blanket beneath them and one over. No one was cold or hungry; Alex had received some ointment from a sponsor that had his wounds knitting together nicely. Before they went to bed, they listened to the Anthem play with no dead tributes to mark it out against the dark sky.

Levine, Hank, and Sean would take turns standing watch, and wake Charles if anything remotely alarming came into view. Charles went to sleep with a light heart and Raven warm against his back.

He woke to terrified screaming.

The foyer was lit only by bits of moonlight through the dirty windows; at first all Charles could make out was motion in all directions. Were the Careers attacking? 

Charles barked, "John! Light!" Fire flickered, then bloomed, a ball hovering over John's hand. 

The room was a nightmare scene of crawling – tentacles? vines? – wound around tributes' ankles, necks, whole bodies, dragging them off into the shadows. A few, Raven among them, had picked up weapons and were chopping and hacking at the things. Charles let out a startled curse and kicked at one that had slithered up to his foot.

"Outside! Cut everyone loose and get outside!" he shouted. He dove toward Moira, who had a vine-mutt (they had to be mutts) coiled tight around her, and began clawing and kicking at it as best he could.

"Hold still!" John shouted.

Charles jumped back just as a bolt of fire leaped from John's hand onto the vines – which instantly released Moira and retreated, writhing and thrashing as they burned.

"Excellent, John! Keep it up!" Charles shoved Moira toward the front door, now standing open as others made their escape. "Raven, go with Moira, see if she's hurt!" He took the sword from Raven's hand as she passed and used it to chop a vine in half as it chased her feet.

It didn't take long after that to have all the vines in retreat, leaving singed and hacked-off bits of themselves behind. Charles and John joined the others in the grass outside; Charles was relieved to see no worse trap sprung for them there.

"Is everyone accounted for? Is anyone hurt?"

It took several minutes to establish that no one was significantly injured. And that Alex was missing.

"Don't panic," Charles said, grabbing Raven's arm when she, Darwin and Sean moved back toward the ruins. "We haven't heard a cannon, so he's still alive. Let's think about what we need to—"

An explosion interrupted him – a cannon, he thought for one terrible moment, but no, it was far louder and closer and there was debris raining around them, bits of stone and wood. They all turned to see Alex framed by the blasted remnant of the castle's east wall, shaking himself free of some sort of blackened corpse.

"It was all one big monster," Alex said, breathless, aiming for casual. "With all the tentacles. It's dead now. Also, I think I figured out what my mutation is." He collapsed into Darwin's waiting arms.


	15. Heat Wave

The second day in the Arena dawned _hot._ No one had gone back into the ruins after the vine-mutt, except to gather blankets and supplies, but as the temperature inched upward they risked it, seeking shade. Most found it so stifling inside that they came reluctantly back out into the full sun.

"It's just the Gamemakers doing what they do," Charles said, passing around cups of water. They didn't have quite enough cups for everyone, but at least they could fill them indefinitely from the fast-moving moat-river around the castle. "Their mutt didn't work, so they have to try something else."

"You say that like it's reassuring." Angel had stripped down to a tank-top and shorts, and was braiding her long, thick hair over her shoulder. "Yeah, they're trying something else, and they're going to _keep_ trying something else until something works. And by 'works' I mean 'kills us all.'"

Raven flinched, and Charles glared at Angel.

"What, like she doesn't know?" Angel said. "Sweetie, did someone forget to tell you we're all here to die?"

"I don't think it's very helpful to focus on—"

"Not all of us." John plopped down beside Angel, and tossed his head back to drain his cup. "Not all of us are gonna die. All but _one."_

"Yes, that's how it works." Charles kept his voice calm, matter of fact. He took John's empty cup, to be refilled and handed out again. "The Capitol decided that, and we can't control it. But we can control our own reactions to it. That's why we're all here, allied."

"That's why we're all sitting ducks," John said. Angel had shifted closer to him, Charles noticed, and everyone nearby was listening intently. "The Capitol wants a show, and if we don't give it to 'em, they'll make it for themselves. With mutts, like that thing last night. With temperature changes, to make us miserable and desperate. I can't wait to see what they come up with tomorrow."

"Well, for today, the odds are actually in our favor, as you may have noticed we have a source of fresh water and the Careers do not."

"Speaking of which," Raven said, "I'm thinking a swim sounds really good right now. Who's with me?"

"Raven, be careful, there's quite a current—"

But the idea carried too much appeal to be suppressed. The river had been a danger when they first arrived, with a cool night falling and no one sure what else they might face; it was now easily conquered by glaring sunlight and the discovery that the water circulated endlessly without going underground or off a cliff or any such inconvenience. (The rules of nature being, after all, more like suggestions in the Arena.) Soon Charles was watching Raven slide by for the third or fourth time, laughing and splashing with the others. Finally he stripped off his shirt and shoes and leaped in after them.

The water was outrageously cold at first, but once he'd caught his breath from the initial shock it felt _lovely._ One had to pay attention to the current, but though it was swift there was no sign of an undertow. At no point did Charles's feet touch the bottom, which was a bit alarming, but as minutes passed and nothing swam up from the deep to attack them, he allowed himself to relax, and join the others in tossing someone's shoe back and forth, calling out ridiculous jokes to those on shore (notably Hank, who seemed very uncertain whether he wanted to get his fur wet), and generally enjoying himself.

He had taken to floating on his back, watching the scorching sky rotate above him with the sun hot on his face and bare chest, when raised voices brought him sputtering upright.

"You just stay back! Charles, get over here!"

Charles scrambled out of the water and ran to where the others were gathering at the edge of the bluff, Darwin and Sean holding a spear and sword from their tiny store of weapons.

"Easy now," Darwin was saying. "Let's just hold our horses until – oh, Charles, good!"

The girl from District 5, the one they called Foxface, was frozen in the act of climbing up the bluff. She wasn't armed, and looked more or less petrified, so Charles didn't see how the situation was all that alarming. Much less so than the fact that everyone had agreed he was the one to deal with it.

"Er, hello there," he called down to her. "Are you going to knife anybody if I let you come up?"

"No." Her voice was raspy, her lips cracked. "I just – I just wanted water. I wanted to just get some water."

Charles touched his temple, trying to focus his mind on hers. He felt no aggression there, no hostility, only fear and desperation. "Come on up, then."

"But Charles—!"

"Relax, Sean. You and Darwin stand ready just in case she tries something. Raven, take that cup and get her some water."

Foxface reached the top of the bluff, and took the water so eagerly she nearly choked on it. The others stood in a loose semi-circle around her, wary.

"Haven't you had any water at all?" Charles asked, as Raven ran to refill the cup.

Foxface shook her head. "There's nothing. I looked and looked. Food, a bit, but no water. You can see, up here, the sunlight glancing off..." She drained the second cup as quickly as she had the first, and only then seemed to fully absorb her surroundings. She frowned in confusion. "There's… a lot of you here."

"We told you we were putting together an Alliance. You're still welcome to join." A few mutters of disapproval behind him; he raised his voice. "All us tributes are in this together. The more the merrier."

For a moment, she looked tempted, but shook her head. "You guys are in for a smackdown, and I don't want to be here when it lands."

Charles saw Angel shift uncomfortably.

"I'm happy to leave you alone as long as you do the same," Foxface continued. "I just… I need water." She shrugged her pack off one shoulder, swung it around to tap the large container strapped to it. It made a hollow sound. "Could I just fill this and go?"

"Of course."

Hubbub erupted behind him. "She could be a spy for the Careers," Levine shouted.

"Don't be ridiculous." Charles led the girl through the crowd, which parted uneasily, to the edge of the river. "We've been watching the Careers, you more than anyone, Levine. Has she been back to the Cornucopia since the first thirty seconds of the Games?"

"Well… no, I mean, not that we’ve seen."

"But she didn't sign up with us," John said. "We don’t owe her anything."

Charles turned toward him, dismayed. "Owe her? John, I think you have entirely misunderstood the point of this alliance."

John shifted his feet. "What's the point of any alliance? You help each other and promise not to kill each other. But she's not part of it."

Foxface, watching them all warily, crouched to let her bottle fill. Charles eased himself between her and the others, just in case.

"If that's all you want out of this alliance," Charles said, "well, you will get it. But it's not about us versus them. It's about," he gestured inarticulately, "not being _versus_ anybody. It's about not turning into murderers just because we were told to."

"Look at her, John," Raven said. "You want to kill this girl? What for? She's not hurting us. We've got plenty of water."

"We won't be killing anybody," Charles said. "Not unless they're actively trying to kill _us."_

Many of the others – Hank, Moira, Sean – were looking thoughtful, or even nodding agreement. Others were frowning, as if they hadn't fully understood what they'd signed on for. The mental commotion was starting to make Charles's head hurt.

The water container was full now; with some difficulty Foxface strapped its increased weight back onto her pack, and swung it onto her shoulders.

"When that runs out, you can come back for more," Charles said. "We'll offer you no harm so long as you do the same. Right? Everyone?"

Everyone nodded, some easily, some reluctantly. John gave a sarcastic smile, spreading his hands, and Charles clearly heard the thought _Why not, we're all gonna die anyway._

***

"Strange," Azazel said, "to be thirsty with so much water right here." He gestured toward the lapping waves.

"Even if it wasn't acid, it would be salt," Ororo said. "Only drink that if you want to speed up your own dying." She poked through the strewn supplies, but they'd already searched twice; no more water, and precious few containers small enough to carry anywhere for filling.

Shaw, Erik noticed, was scanning the sky intently, as if willing parachutes to fall. Erik rolled his eyes and got to his feet. His leg ached mercilessly, but there was no sign yet of infection. As long as it was tightly braced with bandaging, he could walk. He filled a pack with nutrition bars, spare socks, a knife, and one of the few water bottles. Buckling a sword to his side nearly unbalanced him, with the bad leg, but he simply supported the sword with his mutation instead. "If we need water, then let's go find some."

They didn't realize the full extent of the heat until they were well away from the crumpled Cornucopia, out in the broad sun as they searched the scrubby hills for streams or pools. Long before noon, they were all stripped down to tank-tops – or less, Shaw letting his sweaty pectorals shine for the cameras. Erik felt like he'd been breathing cotton particles from the factory all day, mouth and throat dry and sore and sticking together; sweat trickled under his bandages to sting in his wound.

"Can't you call up a rainstorm for us, Ororo?" Frost asked, her voice chiming oddly; she'd said that keeping to diamond form helped with the heat.

"I can't feel any clouds anywhere," Ororo said, spreading her hands helplessly. "Any moisture I gathered would have to come from the ocean—"

"Never mind!"

"What about you, Janos?" Shaw said. "Give us a breeze, at least?"

The gentlest 'breeze' Janos could manage whipped their hair and clothes wildly, tossing the grass and bushes around them; it helped at first, but soon enough Erik merely felt wind-raw as well as sunburned.

Shaw pulled ahead of them after a while, which irked Erik, but his leg wouldn't let him catch up. From the crest of a hill, where he was peering about with binoculars, Shaw called down, "Janos, drop the breeze. All of you come see this."

Erik was the last to make it up the hill, of course, and by the time he was handed the binoculars, the others were talking agitatedly.

"I guess it explains a lot—"

"—should have put it together—"

"—got _water,_ look at all that water—"

"Ripe for the plucking, they can't have more than three swords—"

The binoculars were startlingly powerful, so much that the slightest movement of Erik's hand sent the view pinwheeling across half the landscape. "What are we looking at?"

"The bluff." Shaw sounded smug – more so than usual. "The castle on top."

And now he saw it. In front of a tumbledown castle danced the sparkle and gleam of running water, and a dozen or more figures moving in and around it.

"It's not unusual for the second day to be a quiet one," Shaw was saying, "everyone figuring out their mutations, but I thought it was odd not to have any cannons at all. Now we know why."

"You think they're all allied?" Clove asked, looking through her own binoculars – there'd been two in the Cornucopia supplies. "I guess they have to be. What in the world for?"

"Prey animals feel safer in herds," Shaw grinned, and Erik was surprised by how strongly he wanted to punch him. It made no difference to Erik whether the Careers figured out what Charles was up to, there was no reason for it to tie _his_ stomach in knots.

"We need that water," Azazel said grimly.

"Hey," Clove said, "there's some kind of commotion going on."

The allied tributes were gathering suddenly on the edge of the bluff. Erik's eyes snagged on the sight of Charles rising from the water, shirtless and soaking wet.

A clamor of "Let me see, let me see," rose around them; Erik raised the binoculars out of Azazel's reach only to have them plucked away by Frost.

_"Everyone_ will see," she said, lifting them to her eyes, and Erik felt a blast of cold like a winter storm – not on his skin but _inside,_ in his mind. He wasn't the only one to gasp and stagger; Frost just smiled, and suddenly he could see what she was seeing, framed in ice and diamond.

The allies gathered around Charles, and another tribute just climbing over the edge of the bluff – the girl from 5, Erik thought, and not part of their group, from the others' alarmed, suspicious body language. They all watched as Charles gave the girl water, let her fill her container, kept his body between her and the most belligerent of his companions – all the while talking earnestly, eyes bright, hands animated. Erik noted with surprise the motion of the muscles in his arms and chest; he looked stronger than Erik had given him credit for.

_Yes, he's quite a picture,_ said a dry, amused voice in Erik's mind – Frost, and how _sweet_ it had been of her to tell them the mutagen had given her telepathy in addition to her diamond skin. Erik thought about trying to throw her out of his head, but not yet; he wanted to see how this played out for the allies.

The girl from 5 was leaving. They were letting her leave.

"Separating from the herd," Shaw murmured. "Unwise of you, my girl. Get her."

The others were running down the hill before Erik even understood the sentence. He took off after, trying not to limp.

Erik hadn't allied with anyone, certainly not the girl from 5. Erik was in this to win and that left no room for squeamishness. On top of which, the girl had water.

Water Charles had given her, so that she could live.

Stupid, irrelevant thought. Anyway what was Erik supposed to do, go toe-to-toe with six Careers to defend a stranger?

His mind flashed to Charles protecting that ginger boy from Shaw, a boy he'd barely met. He shoved that entire line of thought to the far, far back of his mind.

They kept to the back sides of the hills, curving to intersect the girl's path as she headed back toward the forest. They almost lost her once or twice among the hills, trying to stay out of sight, but in the end she played into their hands perfectly, slogging through the tall grass just below their position.

Erik drew his sword when the others did, and felt a flicker of gratitude that, with his leg slowing him down, it would likely be over before he caught up. Gratitude veered instantly into deep self-annoyance. Was he really this gutless? Did he really expect to win if he couldn't raise a weapon to a perfect stranger? He shifted his grip on his sword, wrapped his mind around it as well, and braced himself to run, _beat_ the Careers to their prey—

"On three," Shaw whispered. "One."

The girl wiped sweat from her brow, glancing neither right nor left.

"Two."

What was that tucked under her arm? Had she had that earlier?

"Three!"

They broke over the top of the hill, Shaw and Azazel roaring, knives already flying from Clove's hands. The girl from 5 dodged the knives, turned, and flung the bundle under her arm into their faces.

A bird, Erik realized, some kind of large red bird – and that was all he had time to think, before it exploded into flames.

Shouts and howls – Erik lost his footing – he came back up to find fire spreading through the dry grass quick as breathing. Frost turned to diamond, and she and Clove ran after the girl, but the flaming bird (it had to be a phoenix) seemed to be everywhere at once, fluttering and flailing. Clove screamed as her clothes caught fire; Janos whipped off his shirt and tackled her with it. Erik retreated up the hillside, Ororo close behind; Azazel seemed to have vanished.

Shaw, Erik realized, was not running, but walking – into the fire, arms spread and head tipped back. And where he stepped, the flames died away – no, were siphoned away, into Shaw's body, which seemed to… blur, expand, distort somehow, as it pulled them in. He walked calmly up to the panicked phoenix, snatched it up mid-flutter, and broke its neck with an audible _crack._

"There now," he said cheerfully. "Let's see if that doesn't cool you down a bit. How is everyone?"

Frost stood shimmering in the blackened grass; Janos helped a wincing Clove back to her feet. Erik exchanged a glance with Ororo, and warily began picking his way back down the hill, now heavily favoring his injured leg. In the distance, he saw a flutter of movement; the girl from 5 vanishing into the forest. Ha.

"As you can see, we have nothing to fear from fire," Shaw said grandly. "My mutation allows me to absorb any kind of energy, and give it back again. We can thank our feathered friend here for providing me with ammunition for later." The dead bird in his hands began, spontaneously, to burn. It didn't seem to bother him.

"Later won't help us much," Clove said between gritted teeth, "if we all die today. We need water." _**I** need water,_ she might as well have said; Erik could see charred skin through the holes burned in her shirt. Infection they could prevent with medical supplies, back at camp, but with burns like that, dehydration would kill her before it mattered.

"Charles's group let her take water and leave," Erik said, nodding toward the forest. "They might let us do the same."

Shaw gave him an incredulous smile. "You want us to crawl up to the prey animals and beg their largesse? Oh, no." He stroked the phoenix, which was now awake again, eyes calm and alert. "We will not beg, we will _take."_


	16. The Hellfire Club

Erik had assumed the heat would fade with the coming of night, but it didn't, not one bit. That didn't keep Clove from shivering as they crept through the scrub-brush at the foot of the bluff, her damaged skin unable to regulate her body temperature. Erik steeled himself against any pity for her. If he was going to feel sorry for anybody in the arena, it wouldn't be Clove.

It wouldn't be any of them, and he would get a chance to prove that tonight. Adrenaline hummed under his skin, fighting the creeping dehydration that made his head ache and his lips crack. Frost had kept to diamond form until she was simply too weak to maintain it; now her usual pristine paleness was replaced by sunburn and lank, sweat-drenched hair. Only Shaw seemed unaffected, and more than one of the others glared at him for his good cheer.

"Your job, Erik," Shaw murmured, "is to find Charles and bring him to us."

"Bring him to you? Why?"

"So we can make a proper show of it," Shaw said as if this should be obvious. "He scored a _twelve_. I want to make sure the cameras get it loud and clear."

"And that way we’ll be sure he's dead," Frost added. "Whatever they're up to up there, he's the head of it; cut it off, and the rest dies."

"Why me?" Erik asked, but he knew.

Shaw chuckled. "Saves effort. One of us would have to chase him down. You, he'll run to with open arms."

"Is this a problem, Erik?" Azazel asked; Erik thought he had one eyebrow raised in the dimness.

"No, not a problem," Erik said. _In fact, it makes this that much easier._ The secret hum under his skin picked up a notch.

"How is our feathered friend doing?" Shaw asked Azazel, who had the captured phoenix tucked under his arm, occasionally croaking and grumbling to itself.

"Hasn't set me on fire yet," Azazel said. "If he does, I will make certain to kill you before I die."

"Fair enough." Shaw's perfect white District 1 teeth gleamed in the dark as he grinned. "I rather like the poetry of it, don't you? Phoenix versus phoenix? Things like that have power. Speaking of which, I think we need a name."

"…what?"

"For our group. I'm sure the flock of sheep up here are calling themselves something; so should we. I'm thinking," he reached out to pet the bird's head, getting pecked for his trouble, "The Hellfire Club."

There was a moment of baffled silence. Beside Erik, Ororo made a muffled noise like she was trying not to laugh.

"Sure, sugar, why not?" Frost said. "We're the Hellfire Club. Now let's get up this cliffside and raise some hell."

 

The sound of rushing water reached their ears as they approached, and drew them up the steep, rocky wall of the bluff as surely as magnetism. For a few minutes, when they reached the top, all thought of fire and murder and the Games left their minds; they scooped handful after handful of water into their mouths, splashed it on their sunburnt faces – Erik saw Janos dunk his entire head under the surface. Even Shaw bent to take a few swallows.

"You folks just stay right there! Wake up Charles, we've got visitors!"

Erik scrambled to his feet, sword drawn – _ouch_ his leg – but the source of the shout was far out of reach, up on the nearest battlement of the ruined castle.

"Azazel," Shaw snapped, and their red-skinned companion shoved the phoenix into Frost's arms and vanished in a puff of smoke.

In the next instant, the boy keeping watch on the battlement yelped as Azazel grabbed him; for a second they were silhouetted against the sky together, black on midnight blue. Then Azazel disappeared again, and the boy screamed as he fell to the bottom of the bluff.

A cannon boomed.

They could see light and motion now through the windows of the ruin, frantic voices on the air. Was this the moment, should Erik—

"Azazel, get us across the water!"

Before Erik could blink, he was enveloped in smoke and heat – he staggered, disoriented, and found himself on the other side of the rushing river.

"Everyone into position!" Shaw called, grinning like a child at a birthday party. "Erik, bring me that 12!"

The same smoke, and suddenly he and Azazel were inside the castle. The allied tributes, caught in positions of alarm, fear or sleepy confusion, had a bare moment to gape at them before Azazel flung the terrified phoenix into the thick of them. Screams and the roar of expanding fire melded into a single nightmare howl.

Erik thrust his knife between Azazel's ribs.

A cry of pain and surprise, and smoke again; they were outside, high in the air, and Erik realized Azazel was trying to drop him as he had the watchman. Erik clung to the flesh-buried knife with one hand, Azazel's arm with the other, and kept that grip however Azazel thrashed, trying to throw him off. After only a few seconds he had to teleport back to the ground, or splat himself; the moment Erik's feet touched earth, he cast out his ability like a net, looking for metal to aid him.

And found a surprising store of it. This was the Arena, after all, the height of artifice, not some ancient highland hilltop; the walls of the castle were stone facade on iron rebar.

He threw out a hand, _gripped_ the nearest wall with all the power boiling under his skin, and pulled it down.

Metal shrieked, stone tumbled, flames leaped against the night sky. Azazel vanished, but the wall fell like an avalanche onto Frost, Janos, and Shaw. Erik drew his sword, looking around wildly for Azazel and the others, but saw no sign of them. When he turned back around, Shaw and a shimmering Frost were fighting their way out of the debris. Janos was not, and somewhere over the din a cannon boomed.

Janos was dead. Erik had made his first kill.

No time to think about that. He leaped into the field of fallen stone and swung his sword at Shaw's neck.

It connected perfectly – and rebounded out of Erik's hand.

"You dirty traitor," Shaw said cheerfully, swept Erik's feet out from under him, and kicked him in the head.

Erik tried to fight – rake his knife across Shaw's ankles, headbutt him in the stomach, break the wrist of the hand reaching for his throat – but everything he did seemed to simply bounce off. Laughing gently, Shaw lifted him by the throat until his toes barely touched the ground.

For a moment, Erik could see into the ruins behind Shaw, could see flames dying down and Charles crouched with his hand outstretched toward the trembling, fire-edged phoenix. Charles looked up, and for just a moment their eyes locked.

Then Shaw drove Erik's own knife into his chest, and threw him, like a child's cloth doll, yards through the air and into the river.

***

Charles couldn't scream, couldn't run to Erik, couldn't let himself lose the tenuous connection he'd forged with the phoenix, or they might all die. "It's all right, little one, no one's going to hurt you," he said, voice high and shaky. _Erik Erik focus stop—_ "Hush, now, there's a good birdie, everything's all right." His outstretched hand inched closer; finally the phoenix let out a sigh, bumping its head against that hand, and let the flickering flames along its wings die away.

Slumped into the corner just behind the phoenix, Jean drew breath with a painful rattle. She'd been closest to the phoenix when it flamed, and wrestled it to the ground, trying to keep the fire from spreading; her chest, arms, and one side of her face were a charred mess of black and bloody pink. 

Behind Charles, scattered across grass and tumbled stone, were knots of combat – Darwin and Frost in a contest of impenetrability; Azazel broadcasting pain but still popping in and out (who had expected a _teleporter?_ ) to harry Raven, Hank, and Alex as they tried to assist Darwin; Shaw and Ororo swinging axes against John, Angel and Sean, whose attacks of fire, acid, and high-pitched sound seemed to be having no effect, at least against Shaw. To one side, Moira stood over Clove with a broken length of iron, torn between helping the others and staying with a girl who was surely too weak to be a threat.

 _Don't leave her,_ Charles snapped at Moira, _she'll stab you in the back the moment she can._ One hand still soothing the phoenix, he pressed two fingers to his temple and tried to focus, use the power he'd been given to actually _help._ It hadn't worked on the phoenix, its mind too primitive to grasp, but fellow humans—

There was Ororo. With an effort of will, he told her to stop, lie down, drop her weapon – told her as loudly and strongly as he could. And it _worked,_ the white-crested girl removing herself from the fight so smoothly that the others hardly noticed, to lie down in boneless relaxation. He tried Sebastian next – seemed to hit a wall there, couldn't get a grip. Frost – even worse, a stab of cold sharp as a razor – and Azazel was hard to pin down but _there,_ he managed it, froze the teleporter in place with his sword still mid-swing. Without Azazel assisting her, the others got control of Frost within moments, Darwin and Hank holding her to the ground. Though he could feel his breath coming hard with the effort, Charles turned his mind back to Sebastian, who had just knocked Sean aside with a force that couldn't be natural.

"Well, well." Sebastian sounded cheerful and at ease, his posture relaxed as he kept the axe casually between himself and any possible attacker. He tapped the side of his head. "I can feel you poking around in there, Charles. Getting the hang of things, are you? Much faster than Frost. It's not going to work on me, though. A side-effect of my wonderful mutation."

"Charles," Alex growled, a chunk of stone ready to smash into Frost's face, "is there any reason for us not to kill these dirtbags?"

"Kill us? You're quite the optimist," Sebastian said.

"Really? Did you miss the part where you just _lost?"_

"Lost? Still breathing, aren't we? And your brave leader over there, he's not going to give the order to kill. Are you, Charlie?"

Charles drew in a breath. Surely he ought to – he'd told himself, told them all, that they would hold to nonviolence _unless_ someone attacked them first, which Shaw and his friends certainly had. But he'd never visualized it this way, a cold command to end the lives of enemies already subdued, to attack someone who couldn't fight back. That was – that was the kind of thing Cain would do, that couldn't be the right choice—

"You see?" Did Sebastian ever stop grinning? "He's soft, weak, and he's weakened all of you. How long do the weak survive in the Games?"

"It's not weak," Charles said, "to choose not be a monster."

Sebastian gave a thoughtful nod. "Maybe. But has anything less ever made it out of the Arena?"

Raven raised her chin. "There are worse things than dying."

Sebastian laughed. "I respectfully disagree, sweetheart. But you know, you've made a good showing tonight, better than I expected. I think maybe you're not all weak, you've just been following a weak leader. Come out of the herd now, anyone who wants to. Come to the winning side." He let his weapon drop, spread his arms invitingly. "You know how it works. The ones who actually have a chance of victory, we work together to pick off the stragglers before the real show begins. You can be one of the hunters, or one of the prey. Your choice."

Charles watched in horror as John and Angel glanced around, straightened their spines, and stepped forward. The others gasped and murmured.

"Angel!" Sean, scalp bleeding through his fingers, sounded betrayed.

Alex was more alarmed. "Don't – they'll kill you! Don't you know they'll kill you?"

"This was a good try, Charles," Angel said. "But it was never going to work. I want to live."

In the corner of Charles's vision, Alex and Darwin were whispering furiously. Charles couldn't eavesdrop, not without losing control of Azazel, who was fighting him hard. "John, Angel, think about what you're doing. You just saw what these people are capable of. They killed Levine, they would have killed us all. Are you really going to ally yourselves with _them?"_

"What they're capable of? Is wiping you off the map," John said. "I aim to be on the other side of that."

Frost's sharp cold telepathy stabbed into Charles's mind again; he gasped and fell to his knees, feeling Azazel slip free of his control. Before he could blink, Frost had thrown off her distracted captors, and the Careers were all gathered at Sebastian's side, even Ororo on her feet again with foggy eyes.

"Welcome to the Hellfire Club," Sebastian said to Angel and John. "Everyone join hands."

"Wait!" Darwin stepped forward. "I'm coming with you."

Sebastian cocked his head. "Ah. I saw your mutation at work. Very impressive."

"I adapt to survive. So I guess that means I'm coming with you."

Charles, still reeling from Frost's attack, could only watch the nightmare unfold – Darwin stepping close enough to grab Angel and John, forcing them behind the protection of his armored back as he shouted "Now, Alex!" The burst of plasma from Alex's chest that should have obliterated the Careers – except that Shaw caught it, impossibly, caught it and absorbed it and fed it to Darwin with a smug, "Adapt to this."

And he tried, he almost managed it. When Azazel spirited the others away, Angel and John still watching wide-eyed, it looked like he would manage it. But then his skin softened and cracked, fire seeping through, and he raised a hand toward Alex just before dissolving into a burst of light.

After a stunned moment, a cannon fired.

"Darwin," Alex said blankly. "Darwin."

Charles swallowed hard, swallowed tears and rage and self-loathing, swallowed the shock and grief and confusion of everyone around him until surely he would be sick. "Raven. Take the phoenix, keep him calm. Hank, look after Alex. Sean, Moira, get medicine, get water – do whatever you can for Jean and Clove."

"I can't believe they left her – What are you doing, Charles?" Moira asked.

He kicked off his shoes. "Erik is still alive and I am not letting him drown." He ran past her and dove into the water.


	17. Allies

Erik was not going to die. Not at Sebastian Shaw's hands. That simply wasn't an option.

Hallucinatory colors swirled over his vision, painting over the darkness of the night and the ice-cold water; he fought it back, clawed and kicked and choked. The water was so cold and so fast – he couldn't get his bearings, couldn't figure out which way was _up,_ and he could feel his own hot blood pouring away and away into the water, the pain of his chest wound mingling with the ache in his straining lungs... His arms and legs felt so heavy, he was no longer certain they were moving when he told them to. He needed to rest... just for a moment...

_"Erik!"_

The shock of the voice woke him, and he choked on icy water, thrashed in blind panic. It should have panicked him more when arms closed tightly around him from behind, but instead he found himself relaxing instantly, almost involuntarily.

_Calm your mind, Erik, or you're going to drown. Let me help you._

He wasn't hearing the voice with his ears – he couldn't possibly, through the rushing water and his own pounding blood. Was this dying? A warm, familiar voice, the comfort of an embrace as everything faded away?

Then his head broke the surface, and some measure of clarity returned with the first ragged gasp of air. "Get off me," he croaked, trying to struggle free, because this was the Arena, he had to defend himself—

"Oh, shut it," the voice said wearily. "I'm saving your bloody life, you twit."

Charles. Charles's voice. He stopped struggling.

They reached the shore, and strange hands pulled and scrabbled at them, hauling them out of the water. Erik tried to get to his feet; managed his hands and knees, briefly, before he collapsed.

 

Awareness came and went for a while after that; he felt his clothes being pulled away, the warmth of a fire, sharp pain as his wounds were tended.

"Shhh." That same voice again, the one – the _only_ one – he trusted not to hurt him. Fingers combing his hair back. "It wasn't deep, and the bleeding's stopped. You're going to be all right now. Just rest."

But there was another voice, jagged with rage and grief – oh, he knew that kind of rage. Erik couldn't focus long enough to follow what it was saying, but he knew it to be a threat, knew he couldn't rest so long as it was near him.

"—he's one of them – killed Darwin – turn on us the first moment—"

"Stay back, Alex. I'm not going to let you hurt him."

The sound of violence brought Erik close to full alertness – bodies crashing painfully against each other, harsh breaths of effort and pain. He had to get up, he was a sitting duck, but he was simply too weak, he _couldn't._

"No, Alex!"

A hand dug into his shoulder, and Erik scrambled away, hit a wall. Charles dragged the attacker away from Erik with unexpected strength, threw him to the floor and stood between him and Erik.

"He didn't kill Darwin, Alex." The voice was soft now, earnest and intent. "And neither did you. That was Shaw. It wasn't you." He knelt and pulled the sobbing boy on the floor into his arms.

Darkness dragged Erik down again.

***

Charles kept watch over the wounded all night, others taking shifts around him. Erik drifted in and out of consciousness, keeping himself backed against a piece of rubble; after the incident with Alex, Charles couldn't blame him for feeling unsafe. His skin, when Charles brushed sweaty hair from his forehead, was hot with the beginnings of fever.

Clove tried twice to run away, making it only a few steps each time before collapsing. For the first hour she swore and snapped at anyone who tried to tend to her; after a while she was too shivery and glassy-eyed to make trouble, murmuring Sebastian's name over and over, along with, "They left me. They left me." 

Most of the others wanted nothing to do with her, but Moira, grim-faced, helped Charles settle her by the fire and smooth numbing ointment over her burns.

"We have plenty," Charles said quietly, when Moira balked at using the ointment.

"We may need it later."

"She needs it now."

With her burns numbed, Clove gave a ragged sigh of relief and closed her eyes. Charles felt her thoughts sink down into a deeper silence than sleep, and doubted she would wake again.

No one argued about Jean getting ointment and bandages. Raven and Hank sat beside her, helping her sip water, bringing extra blankets when she couldn't stop shivering. They kept her talking, even laughed and sang a little; Charles, privy to the invisible waves of pain and fear and grief eddying around them, was amazed at how well they kept up the facade of normalcy.

Charles had fallen into a half-doze at Erik's side, dabbing water on his face as his fever rose, when a peculiar shock inside his mind snapped him out of his exhausted trance. For a moment he couldn't fathom what it was.

Then the cannon went off.

The awful, sucking silence where Clove had been lasted only the briefest of moments, before she was simply gone. But it was enough to shred what had remained of Charles's nerves, enough to leave him trembling and frantically choking back tears.

"Hey," Erik mumbled, startling him into a gasp. "Hey, you okay?" His eyes weren't even half open; he fumbled with one hand, touching Charles's arm.

"I'm fine," Charles lied, thick-voiced. "I – the others happened so fast, Darwin and Levine, and – I guess there was just so much happening that I – it's stupid, it's hardly a surprise and we weren't friends, I don't know why my hands are shaking like this—"

"Need to get warm," Erik slurred, and pulled Charles down into his arms. 

Charles went rigid with surprise, but didn't fight as Erik folded him half-consciously against his chest. He told himself he ought to get up and do something about the body, but he wasn't at all sure he could walk right now. So he stayed with Erik, whose mind had no idea where it was or what was happening, but it wasn't dying, and his arms were warm and solid. Charles pressed his face to Erik's steady heartbeat and let himself shake.

It was enough, it was just enough, to keep him from falling apart when Jean died only ten minutes later.

 

The bodies wouldn't be picked up as long as there were people around. Charles and some of the other, stronger boys carried Jean, Clove, Levine, and the boy from District 4 (found dead in the rubble of the fallen wall) a little distance away from the ruins, and laid them out in the grass as peacefully as they could manage. Charles would have liked to cover them with a blanket, but there was no point in that. The bodies would be taken up in moments, and the blankets were needed here.

Sebastian and company had arrived at sundown; Charles hadn't noticed the lack of an Anthem then, didn't give it one thought until they were turning away from the bodies, and it began to play over a sky streaked with the first hints of dawn.

Clove, from District 1. The boy from 4. Jean. Levine. Darwin.

Some part of Charles's exhausted mind did the math; fourteen tributes left. Nine of them here at his side.

"Let's get some sleep, Charles," Raven said, squeezing his hand. "You need to have a clear head tomor—today."

"I'll stand watch, just in case," Alex said. "I couldn't sleep right now for anything. But I don't think they'll try anything else right away."

"Yes," Charles said, feeling exhaustion pulling at his every limb – everyone's exhaustion, he realized, not just his own. Another unexpected disadvantage of telepathy. "Everyone, try to rest for a few hours. Then we'll figure out what to do next."

With _Alex_ staying up, Charles thought it unwise to leave Erik alone; he set down bedding for himself and Raven in the grass next to Erik's unconscious form.

The camp fell gradually silent, and finally a hovercraft appeared to take the bodies, lifting them away into the brightening sky.

"Why did you save me?" Erik murmured behind him, making him start. He considered rolling over to face Erik, but didn't have the energy.

"I promised you once," he said instead, staring at the back of Raven's head, "that I wouldn't let you drown." That midnight swimming pool conversation felt, for a moment, like it belonged to another life. Everything before the Arena was another life.

Erik was silent for so long that Charles thought he'd gone back to sleep. But finally, so softly Charles more felt than heard the words, he whispered, "Thank you."

***

Whether Erik was the only one unable to sleep, he couldn't say. Charles certainly seemed all but comatose. His little sister stayed awake awhile, crying quietly in her brother's arms, but eventually she dropped off as well. The camp was still and silent under the scorching sky.

He still didn't understand why Charles had saved him. He could easily have drowned himself, in the rushing water, if Erik had fought or clung to him like drowning people often did. Why would he take that risk, for someone who wasn't even a member of his alliance? Someone who, as the blond boy had pointed, could turn on them at any moment? There was no "live and let live" in the Arena.

Charles had even protected Erik from his own people. And when the blond boy had attacked him, in his attempt to get to Erik, Charles's reaction had been to _comfort_ him, to answer violence with understanding and compassion. Real people didn't _do_ that, not and live.

He _wouldn't_ live, of course. Mercy wasn't a trait of Victors. But... well, Erik could do worse than throw in his lot with Charles for the time being. He would have a safe place to heal, at least. And later... no, there was no point in thinking that far ahead, Erik decided. Too much could change in the meantime.

The sun was relentless, and Charles frowned in his sleep, trying to turn his face away from it. He was already sporting a dash of sunburn. Hesitantly, Erik slid a hand down over his eyes, blocking the glare. Charles gave a sigh of relief, eyelashes fluttering against Erik's palm.

If Erik's mouth went uncomfortably dry at that, it was easy to blame it on the heat.

 

He achieved a fitful doze for a while, but woke with a jolt when one of the tributes, the boy with the blue fur, crouched in front of them with a cup of water. "Charles, people are waking up," the boy said in a gruff, growling voice quite at odds with his timid tones. "We need to figure out what to do for shelter."

"Let him sleep." Erik sat up, careful not to jostle Charles, and winced as his body protested the movement. "I can help with shelter."

"You?" The boy looked suspicious. "No offense, but you look like you could fall over dead at any moment."

"I can help."

Charles's sister sat up and rubbed her eyes, brilliant gold in the dark blue of her face. "If he's going to fall over dead," she said to the furry boy, "let's get some work out of him first."

So they let Charles sleep and lead Erik toward the tumbled stones that had once been a wall. Erik turned back, pulled his shirt over his head, and draped it gently over Charles's face, arranging it to block light while allowing air. Erik would be cooler without it anyway.

If the others looked at him strangely for that, what did he care?

Walking hurt so much it made his head swim – or was that the fever he could feel building under his skin? Pacifists or not, he wasn't about to broadcast weakness to fellow tributes, so he kept his face impassive as he surveyed the wreckage of the building.

"We need shelter from the sun," the furry boy was saying. "And whatever they throw at us next – rain, snow, there's no telling. The walls that still stand are unstable, I've told everyone to keep away from them."

Erik stretched out a hand, trying to focus his mind on the iron rebar he had used to pull the wall down. It kept slipping out of his reach. In his mind he heard Shaw laughing, lifting Edie's coin out of his reach. _Pain and anger._ Well, the very thought of Shaw was sufficient for that. 

Heat surged through Erik's veins, and with it, the iron rebar came suddenly clear. It wasn't easy to keep himself focused, but he made himself breathe deep and even, and began dragging the walls back together. They wouldn't be nearly as pretty, nor very complex, but they _would_ be stable – he made certain of that, shaking every piece down tightly against its fellows.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he finally let all the metal drop from his grip, and, when the walls held together, almost out of his awareness. He only knew he was lightheaded, panting, the muscles in his outstretched arm trembling, and everyone was staring at him.

"Erik, that's amazing," said a quiet voice at his elbow, and Erik jumped. How long had Charles been standing there?

He tried to come up with a response. He didn't think he'd ever been called _amazing_ before. "It should be solid, anyway," he said at last. "I couldn't do much with the roof, but the part that's still there should hold."

"And that may well keep us alive. Here – you look terrible, you should eat." He was holding a half-finished cup of some kind of soup or stew; now he pressed it into Erik's hands.

"I... This is yours." Erik tried to hand it back.

"I'm fine, I've had all I need. I'd get you your own bowl, of course, but there's none left. You have to eat something – go on."

Erik looked down at the soup, which smelled heavenly – likely anything would, as hungry as he was. Charles was giving him food, when there wasn't enough for he himself to have a full serving. In the _Arena,_ Charles was giving away food.

Erik took a swallow of the soup, which tasted even better than it smelled; it helped steady his still-swimmy head. Charles smiled brilliantly, and they watched as the others started moving their things back into the rebuilt castle, standing close enough for their arms to brush despite the growing heat.


	18. The Brightest Corner

During the next two days, the Alliance set up rotations – standing watch, tending the wounded, scrounging food – and waited in growing tension for the other shoe to drop. The relentless heat worsened, until even Hank was showing sunburn anywhere his fur thinned, but they heard nothing from the Careers. Both the heat and the uncertainty made people jumpy and irritable, and Charles had all he could do to keep the squabbling at a reasonable level.

Fixing the walls had bought Erik some goodwill, but Charles was still uneasy about the distrust and hostility that radiated from the other tributes. He made sure to keep Erik close by whenever possible – even sleeping near him – just to make sure no one would try anything. _And_ to make sure the idiot didn't kill himself all on his own; he pushed himself much too hard, climbing stairs on his bad leg, lifting and carrying loads that broke open the stab wound to his chest and made blood seep through his bandages. 

He wasn't willing to show weakness, to invite predatory attention; Charles knew that about Erik, now. And quite a lot of other things besides. He hadn't really intended to dive all the way to the bottom of Erik's mind when he dove into the water after him, but he'd been frantic to find him, hold onto him, keep his consciousness securely lodged in his body. And the result was that he _knew_ Erik, every bit as well as he knew Raven, nearly as well as he knew himself.

And he knew that Erik would try to leave.

It was obvious in every impatient tug at his bandages, every furtive glance toward the Cornucopia; as soon as he felt strong enough, Erik was going to go after Sebastian Shaw. And, in his current state, get himself killed doing it.

The second night after Erik's arrival – after the second anthem in a row with no faces of the dead to display – Charles volunteered for the first watch, on the south side of the castle, overlooking the sea Erik had told them was acid. Once there, he called Raven to cover him for a bit, and threaded his power through the ruins until he found Erik – sure enough, slipping an apple and a flask of water into his pocket and making for the door.

He caught up with Erik just as he made it out the side entrance, called at his back just loud enough to hear. "From what I know about you, I'm surprised you managed to stay this long."

Erik stopped, turned around. "What do you know about me?"

"Everything." Charles kept his chin up, eyes steady, though he knew his scrawny, sunburned body didn't make a very impressive picture.

"Then you know to stay out of my head," Erik said, and he didn't sound angry or defiant as Charles would have expected. He sounded sad, resigned. Lonely.

"I know what these Games have taken from you, Erik," Charles said as Erik turned away again. "I know why you hate Shaw so much. I can help you."

"You?" Erik swept a hand out, as if showing Charles everything around them – the battered walls, the frightened children, the entire Alliance idea that hung by such a fragile thread. "I don't need _your_ help."

"Don't kid yourself. You needed my help when you were drowning—"

"I didn't ask you for that. I don't owe you anything." Again he turned away, and this time took a few steps toward the edge of the bluff.

"It's not just me you're walking away from, Erik," Charles cried, closing that new space between them. "Here you have the chance to be part of something bigger, something incredible—"

"Part of – are you mad? All you're going to be part of is the biggest massacre the Games have ever seen. You say you can help me – you're only going to take me down with you. You're not going to help me win, you're not going to help me kill Shaw!"

Charles stepped closer, close enough to whisper, not letting Erik drop his gaze. "No. I won't help you do that. But I _will_ help you destroy the Games."

Erik stared at him. "You really are mad."

"Or," Charles stepped back, his voice casual now, "you can limp off into the darkness with your wounds infected and bleeding, and probably be dead by sunrise." He turned and walked back toward the castle, not even pausing as he called over his shoulder, "Shaw's got friends, you know. You could do with some."

When he got back to their room – well, the little semi-walled section of ruined castle that he, Raven, and Erik had been sleeping in – after his watch, it was empty, and his heart felt hollow and grey as he got comfortable on top of his blankets. But it wasn't fifteen minutes before he heard movement, and sensed Erik's presence, all frustration and pain and secret relief, settling in beside him. Half-asleep and unthinking, he laid a hand over Erik's in the dark, and fell asleep smiling as Erik curled their fingers together.

***

The next day Charles woke to the sound of Erik barking for everyone to get up and get ready for training. Outraged eyes turned to Charles, thoughts he almost didn't have to hear: _Who does this bozo think he is? Are we actually supposed to do as he says?_

Erik met Charles's eyes, a silent – plea? demand? expectation? – of support. 

"You heard Erik," Charles said. "You know our powers are our best hope of defending ourselves. Get up and practice using them."

***

"My mutation doesn't actually do anything," Raven said bitterly when Erik tried to get her to train. "It just makes me ugly."

"Ugly?" Erik raised his eyebrows. "I think you look very impressive."

"Don't tease her," Hank said, reaching for her hand. "It's not funny, what they've done to us."

"Funny, no. Useful, yes. That's the entire point of the mutations. They're weapons." Erik looked Hank up and down. "I remember what you looked like before, Hank. You could hardly lift your own fists, much less fight with them. Trust me, you've never looked better."

"Hank is stronger now," Raven said, "and he can use his claws and teeth to fight. _His_ mutation is a weapon. Mine's just… funny colors."

"That's unlikely. Sometimes the mutagen doesn't work, or it goes wrong and kills you, but I've never heard of it going partway and just stopping. You should be able to do something." Erik walked a circle around her, frowning. Raven raised an eyebrow and submitted to the examination.

Once he was outside her peripheral vision, Erik flicked a finger, and one of the bits of metal he'd taken to keeping on his person jabbed the underside of her knee.

She yelped and jumped away from him – and her skin rippled, the blue scales shifting and turning, hints of other colors on their edges.

"What – what was—" Raven stared down at herself, lifted an arm and focused on it. Slowly the scales rippled again, turning smooth and peach-colored. Within moments, she looked just she had the first time Erik saw her, blonde and perfect. She put her hands to her cheeks and burst into tears.

Erik supposed it wasn't fair to roll his eyes at her, however silly it was to value a "normal" appearance over the ability that might save her life. She was just a child. And Hank, now delicately stroking her golden hair with his claws, was not much older.

He was more surprised when Charles, drawn by the sound of his sister crying, rushed over and burst into tears as well, throwing his arms around her.

"How did you change back? Oh, Raven, I didn't think I'd ever see your real face again!"

"I would guess she's a shapeshifter," Erik said, "she can probably look like anyone, with practice," but no one was really listening to him. He let out an exasperated breath. What kind of nonsense was this, about never seeing her real face again? Aside from the fact that her face had never stopped being real, victors didn't keep their mutations anyway—

Victor. Singular. Even if Raven won, Charles wouldn't be there to see it. There would only be one survivor, and for one second Erik had forgotten that.

Charles caught his eye over Raven's shoulder and mouthed a silent "Thank you." Erik was too shaken to think of any way to respond.

***

That day and the next, they saw nothing of the other tributes, but didn't think too much of it. Both alliances needed time to regroup, tend wounds, gather resources. By the dawning of the third day, though, tension hung in the air. The "Hellfire Club" or whatever they called themselves had to be up to something. And besides that – too many days without a cannon going off, and the Gamemakers would intervene.

"Headache?" Erik asked as Charles sat up, rubbing his temples. Erik had woken first, as always, and fetched breakfast – meager rations of bread smeared with vegetable paste. He handed Charles his share and took a bite of his own. About as disgusting as it looked, but it was food.

"It'll get better when I wake up enough to have shields," Charles said. "Where's Raven? Oh, that's right, early watch. _"Oh_ – yes, like that, can you…?" He leaned into the pressure of Erik's thumb against his temple; Erik pressed harder, his other fingers sliding through sleep-mussed curls, and tried to ignore the way his pulse had suddenly picked up. He cleared his throat.

"You should train, too, you know," Erik said. "Shielding and… things. You've been so busy teaching everyone else, they all forget you're as new to this as anyone." Anyone but Sebastian Shaw, at least, whom he darkly suspected of having been well-trained in his mutation before the Games ever started.

"Are you going to teach me?" Charles chuckled. "I'm not at all sure I'd enjoy that, considering our different approaches."

Erik grinned. "Are you still sore about Sean's flying lesson? Come on, you know you were thinking the same thing."

Charles snorted, shooting him a glare that was distinctly undermined by the amusement drifting from his mind. Erik caught the mental image of Sean falling from the topmost tower of the castle – fall becoming flight as his voice and cobbled-together wings buoyed him up, Sean swooping around the castle with his piercing screams now joyful instead of terrified.

Then the image faded, Charles breaking both their mental and physical contact as he pulled his shields into place. It felt like the sun going behind a cloud.

 

Erik, as the only Alliance member with any kind of combat experience outside their pre-Arena training, was put in charge of teaching the others how to fight. Moira, especially, paid keen attention to his instructions; as a mutagen nonreactive, mundane weaponry and hand-to-hand were her only chance. Erik set her to practicing throws with Sean, while he talked Raven through some basics of knife-fighting.

"They think you're going to turn on us," Raven murmured, jerking her head at the others. "That you're only here because you're hurt, and once you can fight again you'll stab us all in our sleep."

"That's what they think, hm? I thought Charles was the telepath," Erik said.

"I don't have to read their minds. They say it out loud whenever you're not around."

"Mm," was all Erik said, and "Careful with your grip or you'll cut yourself."

He wasn't going to stab anyone in their sleep, and yet – he hadn't signed up for this alliance, and he wasn't going to. Charles was right, he needed allies, for now. But it was the nature of Mutant Games alliances to be transient. He couldn't swear that no one in this group would ever be in danger from him. If it came to it, a slit throat in the night might be the only kindness he could give them.

_What if it comes down to you and Charles?_ whispered the darkest part of his mind, and Erik needed a few deep breaths to get it silenced again.

 

When lunch was ready – soup again, and thinner than last time – Erik went down to the thin bit of beach below the bluff to find Charles. With Hank's extremely reluctant assistance, he had taken Alex down there to practice his plasma bursts where no one would be hurt; it occurred to Erik, as the sound of explosions came over the crash of the waves, that a "training accident" would be an easy outlet for Alex's resentment of him. Still picking his way down the bluff, he broadcast a thought for Charles to pick up.

_If I come down there, am I going to be a victim of Alex's bad aim?_

_Um… you might want to stay where you are. Just for a moment._

Bemused, Erik stopped. From here he was looking down at their backs, mostly differentiated by their blond, brown, and blue heads.

"It's still weird to me having naked mannequins projected into my head," Alex was complaining, almost shouting over the ocean's roar. "Why do they have to be naked?"

"I'm just trying to keep it simple." Charles sounded exasperated. "When _you_ learn how to project images into someone else's mind, you can decide how detailed to make them. Now, let's try Hank's focus aid again."

The "focus aid" was a length of iron rebar from the castle's collapsed wall, Erik realized, bent into a circle (just how strong _was_ Hank?) and tied to some kind of strap, which they dropped around Alex's neck, so that the circle hung on his chest like some bizarre necklace pendant.

"Try to channel the energy through that circle," Charles said. "Keep it in the core of your body, and then _outward._ You can do it. You only need to focus." He touched Hank's arm and drew him backward, until the two of them were standing before Alex, just out of reach of the waves. The _acid_ waves, was he a complete idiot? The only thing that kept Erik from charging down there and dragging him away from the water was Charles's firm _no_ in his mind.

"A few feet that way, Hank, I'm going to put the mannequin right between us," Charles said, and Alex visibly stiffened.

"You're what?"

"I have complete faith in you, Alex," Charles said serenely. "You can control this." He touched a finger to his temple, assumedly putting the 'mannequin' into place. Hank, Erik noted, was glancing from Charles to Alex in pure nauseous terror, but he stayed where he was.

Well, it was all very well to have faith, but Erik was not going to let this out-of-control idiot blast Charles into bits. He tensed himself to drop the rest of the way down to the beach—

Just as brilliant red light exploded from Alex's chest.

Erik felt a shout leave his throat, both useless and needless – the bolt of energy flew straight between Charles and Hank and out across the sea, scattering harmlessly against the Arena's force field somewhere in the distance.

Erik sagged back against the bluff as the three others whooped and cheered, Alex looking almost as limp as Erik while Charles shook his shoulders in congratulations.

_You see, my friend,_ Charles murmured in his head, flicking a sea-blue gaze at him over Alex's shoulder. _My methods have their advantages, too._

***

That night Charles volunteered himself and Erik to take the first watch together. He hummed absently along with the Anthem as it played over another empty sky, and shrugged when Erik glared at him.

"I call the Anthem a victory," he said, "any night it plays with no one dead."

Erik only grunted, but Charles could feel the flicker of approval from his mind. Erik understood the importance of turning an enemy's own weapons against him.

Speaking of enemies – though he missed Levine's superior eyesight, they still had an excellent view of the Careers from here, camping on the beach by the Cornucopia. Silver parachutes had been falling there daily, which probably explained why they hadn't come seeking water. Nevertheless, Charles had no doubt they were gearing up for another attack on the bluff; even now he could see a gust of flame above the beach, spinning in unnatural circles, doubtless at John's command. Raven, on watch earlier, reported that Angel seemed to have discovered a new facet of her power, some kind of projectile force that she'd practiced with all morning.

"How's the leg?" Charles asked, watching out the corner of his eye as Erik leaned against the parapet, subtly taking the weight off his injury.

"It's fine. The medicine helped."

It had, but it was all gone now. And unlike the Hellfire Club, they hadn't received a single parachute since that first day. "And your lovely chest stab?"

"What are you, my nursemaid? I'm fine."

Oh, yes, he was fine. That was why his mental image of the wound included swelling, redness, and pus. Charles stepped forward and pressed the back of his hand to Erik's forehead. "Your fever's back."

Erik batted the hand away. "You can't possibly tell in this rotten heat. When's the last time you drank some water, anyway?"

"Don't change the subject," Charles said, but turned back to watching the beach anyway. After all, what he could do about Erik's fever in any case?

For a few minutes they were silent, watching nothing happen for miles around. The phoenix Azazel had thrown into the midst of them with such tragic results – now thoroughly petted and tamed – strutted along the wall beside them, its red-orange feathers dim under starlight. Erik flipped his coin back and forth through his fingers.

"That was really stupid," Erik said eventually. "What you did with Alex earlier."

"It worked."

"What if it hadn't?"

"I knew it would. Just like," he overrode Erik's protest before he could speak it, "you knew Sean would fly if you pushed him."

"I'd rather see you gamble with others' lives than your own," Erik said.

"You know, Raven told me how you first got her to change shape. Hurting her to see what she'd do. I know that's the way you were taught – by Shaw, by life – I know you think your only weapons are pain and anger. But it doesn't have to be that way."

"It's gotten the job done all this time."

"It's nearly gotten you killed all this time." _Getting yourself killed is your entire plan, I know. But I haven't given up on saving you._

The way Erik suddenly avoided Charles's gaze betrayed that he had heard him, but he made no reply.

After another few minutes of silence, Charles realized Erik's gaze into the distance had acquired _intent._ He frowned, breathing deeper, and after a moment raised both hands, fingers splayed, as if trying to grab – the metal Cornucopia, surely – from the other side of the Arena. To Charles's surprise, a sound of vibrating metal drifted on the night air; startled cries echoed from the beach, small figures darting out of their metallic shelter. But then the sound faded, and Erik was left panting, empty-handed.

"See, I told you," Erik said. "I need the situation, the anger."

"I think you may need something else," Charles said. "Would you mind if I…?" He waved his fingers near his temple, and when (to his surprise) Erik nodded permission, closed his eyes and went in.

For all that Charles found other minds difficult to block out, this was the first time he had deliberately delved so deeply into one. Erik's mind was familiar territory, of course, after his accidental invasion when Erik was drowning, and yet it surprised him with its straight-edged, hard-angled beauty, with the breadth and depth of detail and complexity he had only, he saw now, begun to actually grasp. Even more, it surprised him with its easy acceptance of his presence.

_I did tell you you needed to train, too._ Erik's amusement glowed all around him like a casual embrace, and Charles couldn't help returning a grateful smile that caused Erik to almost flinch away from its brightness, dazzled.

There was little enough of brightness in here, Charles thought sadly. So much of Erik was stained by grief, anger, the cynical hardness necessary to survive in the tenements of District 8. But underneath, like light between cracks, was a treasure trove of loyalty, love, gentleness, and downright romantic sentimentality. That sweeter part of him was just as powerful as the darker parts, if not more so.

Charles could see Erik's mutation, now, the new place in his mind that could sense and manipulate metal – more accurately magnetism, but on so deep a level that Erik could not tell them apart. He could see the access points Erik had built to it, all of them based on strength of emotion. But it didn't have to be a negative emotion. He would show Erik that. He would flood those access points with something _beautiful_ and show him—

There. That memory.

Charles didn't really see it until he pulled it out into Erik's foremind, and then it was impossible to tell the difference between Erik's emotions and his own – shock, wonder, the unbearable sweetness of remembered happiness. Erik at eight years old, lighting Hanukkah candles with his sister Edie, the last year before she went into the Arena.

Erik gripped the edges of the parapet, reeling. "What did you just do to me?"

"I accessed the brightest corner of your memory system." Charles wiped tears from his cheeks, refusing to be ashamed of them. "It's a very beautiful memory, Erik. Thank you."

Some faint relative of a smile tilted Erik's mouth, brief as a heartbeat. "I didn't know I still had that."

Charles knew what he meant. The memory had not truly been buried by the years – it had scarcely been a decade, after all. It was the ability to recall it in its true form, unravaged by pain and grief and rage, that Erik had lost. Or thought he had lost.

"Try again," Charles whispered.

Erik stretched out his hand toward the Cornucopia again, the peace and joy of the memory of Edie still singing through all the structure of his mind, and this time – this time the dark predator-fish shape on the beach turned, and twisted, and crumpled in on itself like paper, the Hellfire Club shouting and swearing around it as their supplies were tumbled and then trapped inside it.

Erik was laughing now, looking at Charles like he was something wonderful he had never expected to see, and Charles laughed with him, catching the effervescent triumph and joy that overflowed from him, heady as any wine. They seemed to fall closer together, Charles touching a hand to Erik's arm. 

"Erik, there's so much more to you than pain and anger. You're _beautiful_ – in there—" he traced fingertips over Erik's temple, "there's so much good in you… Please don't throw yourself away. Please."

Erik didn't shrink from the touch, didn't look away, and Charles could feel Erik's trembling astonishment that anyone could look at him that way, could lean in when Erik stepped closer—

"Guys, are you seeing this?" Moira shouted, laughing as she bounded onto the parapet and pointed out at the beach. "How did that happen? Erik, did you do that?"

They separated, turned away from each other, without another word or look. But Erik caught Charles's hand, as it fell away from his arm, and kept it in his own fever-warm grip even as the parapet filled with fellow tributes wanting a look at what Erik had done.


	19. The Fall

Charles wasn't on watch the next evening, but he climbed to the top of the castle anyway, leaning against the fake stone and watching the sky for the Anthem that would have to play soon. The sun was going down on Day 7 in the Arena, and there had been no cannons since Day 3.

On the grass below, his Allies laughed and teased each other as they cooked a rabbit and a squirrel – caught by Hank with his extraordinary strength and senses – over a fire. Wood was getting as scarce as food, but fortunately they only needed it for cooking, not warmth. There were fewer people to feed than there had been – only himself, Raven, Erik, Hank, Alex, Sean, and Moira – but seven was still a sizable alliance in the Games, and one more than the "Hellfire Club" boasted, even with their recent…converts.

Foxface was still out there too, he reminded himself. It wouldn't do to forget her. He wondered if she still had water at all.

"And what are you thinking about so loudly?" Erik asked, stepping up behind him.

Charles couldn't help swallowing at their sudden proximity, his smile a little too bright to pass as casual. "Hello, Erik. What brings you up here? It's not your watch yet."

Erik held up a small bottle. "Raven said you hadn't had a turn with the ointment."

"Oh, I'd almost forgotten!" They'd finally received more parachutes that day – three bottles of gel for treating sunburn. "That stuff's useful, I'm sure, but I wish it had been food. We're on slim rations as it is, and I don't know where – oh, really, Erik, I can do it myself."

Erik only snorted, and Charles stopped protesting the moment the gel touched his skin, startlingly cold and instantly killing the pain of the burn. He couldn't contain a breathy sound of relief, leaning into the touch as Erik spread the gel across his face.

And yes, possibly relief wasn't the only reason he leaned forward. Possibly it had nothing to do with why his eyes fluttered shut as Erik's strong, capable fingers curved around his cheeks.

"There," Erik said, his voice uneven enough that Charles didn't need telepathy to know he wasn't alone in his reaction. Charles inched closer, struggling for enough focus to speak into Erik's mind.

_You asked what I was thinking – well, I was thinking how much we've shown people already. Just by still being here, a week into the Games, without turning on each other or being wiped out._

Erik pushed words outward for Charles to grasp, warm curls of thought. _Is that what you meant? When you said we could destroy the Games?_ He didn't seem terribly impressed with the idea.

 _In a sense. How do you—_ Charles began, only to be completely derailed by Erik reaching out to brush a thumb over one edge of his upper lip.

"Sorry. Missed a spot," Erik said.

"Thank you," Charles managed, dry-mouthed, and tried to ignore the way Erik was still staring at the spot he'd touched. _How do you think people are seeing it, out there? Do you think they're not noticing that we've declined to play the game, and are still alive to tell it?_

_And what does that accomplish?_

_It gives people hope! The Capitol keeps the Districts down by making them think there's no point to resisting. We can show them differently._ Part of Erik wanted to believe him, Charles thought. But he didn't, yet. Charles sighed and reached for the sunburn ointment, rubbing some onto the tips of his ears. The sight provoked such a spark of amusement from Erik that Charles shot him a glare.

"Yes, well, we can't all have glorious tans, and sunburn hurts rather a lot just there."

"Poor dear." _I never expected to like a Capitol accent._

Not at all certain he was supposed to hear that, Charles turned and looked out at the sky again. Getting darker, but no Anthem yet. "I do wonder what my mother thinks of all this," he murmured. "What my father would have thought." _My mother might be watching right now, you know. There could be a camera trained on our faces this very moment. We know they're watching. They see what we're trying to do._

Where might the cameras be? Surely the collapse of the castle had disabled most of the electronics it might have contained. It was creepy to think of – what, tiny robots? Slipping in to effect repairs in the night? Something like that had surely happened. The Gamemakers wouldn't let anything go unrecorded, unobserved.

 _How foolish of them,_ Charles said, one corner of his mouth tipping up, _to give me a power that lets me hide things from them._

 _That_ won a fierce little glow of approval from Erik's mind, and they shared a smile that lasted a beat longer than it should've.

"We should talk about food," Charles said aloud. "Everyone is hesitant to leave the bluff, myself included, but we've exhausted the nearest fruit trees. We can't count on parachutes, you know how it gets more and more expensive for anyone to send things– I do wonder who sent this gel stuff? It's _marvelous,_ my face feels amazing. I need to get it onto my shoulders." Stiff and wincing, he pulled his shirt over his head.

Erik's attention, already quite focused, immediately intensified. For a long second they couldn't look away from each other; if Erik was breathing, Charles couldn't tell it.

"I can—" Erik cleared his throat and tried again. "I can take a few people hunting tomorrow. We'll stay in a group."

"You don't need to do that much walking."

"I'm not sending children out there alone when I'm the only one here with any sense." Hesitantly, he added, "I can help with your back. If you like."

Charles surrendered the ointment bottle and turned around.

Strong hands settled on his shoulders, a fascinating combination of hot skin and cold gel as they began to stroke back and forth, and again Charles let his eyes drift shut, hoping his rising blush would be hidden behind sunburn.

"Um," Charles said, trying to pick up the thread of the argument. "We haven't any good weapons for hunting."

"Don't we?" A trail of metal pieces rose from Erik's pocket, circled Charles for a moment and went back down. "They've given us all the weapons we need."

"Oh, very well, then. You can go hunting tomorrow." _This is the Mutant Games, not a school dance,_ some already-losing part of himself insisted, as he leaned back into Erik's touch. _You couldn't choose a less appropriate time and place for a crush._ But there wouldn't be any other time, any other place. If this was all he got, he was going to take it.

"I never asked for your permission," Erik said – sharp words, but the hands sliding along his shoulders were gentle. Lingering. Erik was utterly arrested by the idea of making Charles feel good things with his own hands, hands that he'd never before considered could… please anyone, help anyone. His thoughts were all questions – what if he touched there, or there, what would it feel like…

He seemed to be under the impression, or at least the desperate hope, that Charles couldn't hear these thoughts unless they were pushed toward him, like the words of their silent conversation. Charles didn’t have that kind of control yet. His mutation showed him what it would, when it would, and it was showing him Erik and he wanted that, wanted to see him, to feel…

"After the Anthem," Erik said, hoarse and quiet, "maybe we could – if you want to—"

Charles tensed. "Erik. They haven't played the Anthem. It's full dark." Last time they had delayed the Anthem because they knew the Careers were about to attack, the body count was about to change—

Erik's head came up like a dog who'd scented something—

And the stone beneath their feet began to move.

Before Charles could take a breath, everything was shaking – the walls, the ground – even the river was splashing wildly, overflowing its narrow banks. Charles clutched at the stone rampart, but Erik wrenched him away from the wall and toward the stairs.

"We’ve got to get down from here!" he shouted over the shockingly loud rumble and crash. 

"I'd rather be on top of a collapse than in the middle of it—"

"You don't understand!" Erik was pushing the words into his mind as he said them, making sure they'd be heard. _"The entire infrastructure of this hilltop is changing, I can feel it – I don't know what's happening but we need to be far away!"_

They were still a few steps from the stairs when a deafening shriek – large things breaking, moving, shoved too fast through a small space – tore the air, and the roof dropped out from under them.

Charles had a weightless, sickening moment to realize they were falling, that there was no way they'd survive – and then something was on top of him, crushing the air from his lungs, and he was pinned facedown to the surface of the falling chunk of rooftop.

Erik. Erik was holding him down, both of them clamped magnetically to the iron rebar inside the wall, and unless Charles was imagining it, Erik was using that same power to slow their descent. He gripped Erik's wrist and held his breath as the rooftop met the ground at the bottom of the bluff. The impact wasn't gentle – dirt fountained into the air before them – but it didn't leave them smashed to pieces.

For a long moment afterward, they were both still, gasping and shaky, Erik still heavy on his back, the pulse in his wrist fluttering in Charles's grip. Then they scrambled to their feet, he and Erik simultaneously lifting and leaning on each other.

The castle was rubble, a heap of tumbled stone on either side of a gaping crack in the hillside. It was opening wider as they watched, belching smoke. Where was Raven? He saw Moira, and Sean with his arms full of supplies, Hank digging someone out of the wreckage – was that Raven? Where was _Raven?_

Charles jammed fingers against his temple, reached for every mind he could find. _Get down the hillside! Not that way, Sean, remember the ocean's acid. Toward me! Run!_ Hank – he sagged with relief – was indeed pulling Raven out of the rubble, bruised at worst, and bounding down the side of the bluff with her in his arms. Alex had been on watch – he'd tumbled down the other side, toward the beach, he'd have to come the long way around…

Charles coughed, choking on the air – it tasted like ash. And the cloud pouring from the bluff’s new chasm had been joined by red light, and the first bright creeping trails of lava.

 _Stay near the water!_ Charles sent out. Their looped river had broken open and was spilling down the bluff; it might provide some protection from the lava if necessary. He was already slip-sliding down the chunk of rooftop; Erik protested as he followed, but Charles wasn’t just going to stand there while the others needed help.

They reached the foot of the bluff just as Moira and Sean did, several yards to their right. The lava was flowing fast down the sheer sides of the bluff, hissing where it hit the water, but everyone was well ahead of it still; Charles waved an arm, trying to catch Sean or Moira’s eye.

Moira glanced up, and with his mind so wide open, Charles caught a flash of her relief that he and Erik were there, renewed confidence that now things would be okay – before something slammed into her with impossible force, throwing her to the ground. With a single flicker of surprise and pain, her mind winked out, a moment of shocking hollowness before it was simply gone.

The sound of the cannon was faint, in the chaos, but unmistakable.

Charles staggered, barely feeling Erik’s arms holding him up. Sebastian Shaw stood over Moira’s body, and took a moment to grin at Charles before turning to swing a wrecking-ball fist at Sean.

How had he not felt him, how could he not _feel_ him – Sebastian’s mind had been slippery, before, impossible to grasp, but not impossible to _see—_

He was seeing it now, Charles realized. Now that he was looking. There was something like a cold aura around it, as if he had to tear through chilled cobwebs to get to it – and now that he was tearing the cobwebs away, more minds were flickering into his perception. They were here, all of them, the Careers – the Hellfire Club – stationed in a ring around the new volcano. Frost, the source of the cobweb shielding, was on the other side, and closing in on Alex.

"Charles, are you—"

"Help Sean!" Charles snapped, and Erik obeyed, running toward Sebastian with his teeth bared. Charles took a deep breath and focused his telepathy hard enough to leave him light-headed, targeting Frost like a missile.

Frost’s mind shattered with a crystalline ringing that was surely all in his head, and she collapsed – not dead, but certainly down for the time being.

John was now heading toward Alex from the other side, his mind half grim, half excited; Charles sent Alex a warning, and turned to where Raven and Hank had stopped halfway down the bluff, broadcasting distress.

 _Charles,_ Raven called, _we can't get around the lava. We're cut off._ She and Hank clutched each other's hands in the orange light, the air around them wavering with heat.

 _I'm coming!_ What exactly he would have done to help, Charles later couldn't say, but it didn't matter. He was still yards away when Azazel exploded into being inside their pocket of space between lava streams, and plunged a sword deep into Hank's chest. He was already whipping around toward Raven before Charles could bring his telepathy to bear, freezing him in place.

Distantly, Charles could feel his body trembling, hear shouts and Sean's weaponized scream as Angel joined in the fight against him and Erik. Distantly, he could feel waves of heat blasting them all as the lava crept closer and closer, feel his own lungs laboring to breathe through the choking ash. All his focus remained bent on keeping Azazel still. He had no attention, no power to spare for anything else. It was like trying to hold down a panicked horse with one finger.

Through Azazel's eyes, he could see Raven rush to Hank's side and try to get him up, then, failing that, search for some route of escape, all the while darting terrified glances at Azazel. 

Pain entered the edges of Azazel's wildly-thrashing mind, and Charles realized he was standing too near the lava. His clothes, his skin, were starting to blacken and curl, and if Charles kept him there, he was going to have to feel him die in agony. What choice did he have? If he slackened his grip even enough to make him move, he could slip away and kill Raven.

Somewhere a cannon sounded, and the surprise was enough to fracture Charles's attention – his telepathy pulsed out of its tight focus and caught a mind speeding toward him from behind, set grimly on his death and refusing to feel guilty about it because Azazel was her ally and she had a duty to defend him—

Charles spun toward her, putting out a hand instinctively. _"STOP!"_

Ororo stopped, with a jolt that knocked the sword from her hand, and for the briefest fraction of a second, looked startled – then fell bonelessly to the ground, her mind drawn away into a sucking abyss, and gone.

The cannon sounded again.

Charles stared at the lifeless body on the ground, wanting to scream, to retch, to claw his own head open and take out the part of him that had done this. Erik’s remembered voice echoed inside him – _"They’ve given us all the weapons we need."_

Azazel, he remembered, _Raven—_

He turned, and Azazel was staring at him. Charles caught a glimpse of himself through Azazel's eyes, white and shaking, face wet with tears – _looks like a helpless baby but she just fell over – I'm not going up against that._

He caught Raven around the arm, and vanished.


	20. Cold Snap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foxface's name: Apparently in the Italian dub of the movie, many fans claim to hear Caesar Flickerman address Foxface as Finch.

Erik didn't even notice he was shivering at first. Charles was shivering – more accurately, Charles was trembling almost hard enough to call a seizure – but under the circumstances, it didn't occur to Erik that it had anything to do with temperature. Until the snow started.

"Charles, get up. We have to find shelter."

No response. In the first moments after Azazel disappeared with Raven, Charles had tried to throw himself into the lava and swim to her last position, which was every kind of stupid since she wasn't even there anymore. He had kicked and screamed and fought as Erik dragged him away – and then quieted, and not made a sound since. Erik had let him sit and rest while he worked on sharpening a length of iron rebar into a sword; he regretted that now.

"Charles." Erik crouched in the dry, frost-crunching grass and shook him, the bare skin of Charles's shoulder cold against his hand. Now that he'd noticed the cold, Erik kicked himself for taking so long about it; Charles had no shirt, and his lips were already taking on a blueish tinge.

Erik looked around wildly, as if there were any kind of help to be had. There was only the newborn volcano in the distance, still belching ash and flame, casting red light over the dry scrub of the hills. Erik had no idea which way the other surviving Allies might have gone. He wasn't even entirely sure there were any.

"Charles, you have to get up." Charles only stared vacantly, snow catching in his hair. Erik raised a hand to slap him, but the image of Sebastian Shaw flickered in his memory, waking him with a slap and a kick. He pressed the hand to Charles's cheek instead, and _pressed_ his mind forward, trying for a shock of a different kind.

Charles gasped and flinched away, almost as if he _had_ slapped him, but at least his eyes focused. "Erik?"

"It's snowing, Charles. Get up. We have to find shelter."

"Our shelter's gone," Charles said, gazing over his shoulder at the volcano, where their castle used to be. "And Raven's gone."

"Yes, and when the Anthem plays we'll find out whether she's dead. I haven't heard a cannon, though."

Now his eyes did not merely focus, but spark, some semblance of life returning. "You're right… maybe… maybe she's still alive."

"We won't be, if we stay out here and freeze."

Charles got to his feet and looked around. "If we can find the apple tree, I think there was some sort of a cave not too far away."

 

It was hardly a dent in the hillside, a dark narrow hole between rocks that the two of them could barely fit inside, and by the time they found it snow was swallowing the grass and their feet with it. Charles could hardly breathe for shivering; the cave kept them close but Erik pulled him closer still, legs tangled awkwardly, hands moving up and down his back, trying to rub warmth into icy skin.

Charles's breathing had only just begun to calm when the Anthem sounded overhead.

"Charles, no—!" Erik tried to hold him back, but Charles scrambled free of the cave, out into the blowing snow, and looked up at the sky. Cursing, Erik followed.

The first face to appear was the dark-skinned, white-crested girl from District 4. Charles made a choking sound and clutched Erik's hand; Erik frowned, but perhaps it was a reaction to the lack of anyone from District 3. That meant Hank, against all sane odds, was still alive.

The next casualty was John, pyromaniac and side-switcher, which meant Sean and Alex were alive. And then Moira's face. And then the music and lights faded away. 

"Raven's alive," Erik said, surprised at how relieved he felt. He'd grown to like the fiery little creature more than he ever meant to.

Charles, he realized, was crying, tears freezing in his eyelashes. Erik swore and hustled him back inside.

"Raven's alive," Charles whispered against his chest in the darkness of the cave. "Raven's alive. And the boys. But poor Moira – and Ororo – oh god Ororo, Erik, Erik—"

"What are you talking about, Charles? What do you care about Ororo?"

"I know you don't understand, you can't understand. She was the enemy. But she wasn't. She didn't really want to be here. And I just told her to _stop_ and… and she stopped. Right there in my head." Charles swallowed. "There was no time for her to be afraid or feel any pain. There's that at least."

It was ridiculous, Erik thought, for Charles to feel bad about defending himself. If anything, he should be celebrating his astonishing power. It was certainly making an impression on Erik, that Charles could make a person fall down dead on his command. He ought, by all good sense, to be afraid of Charles. However helpless he looked, shivering and weeping in Erik's arms, he needed only a _thought_ to defeat anyone who came against him.

Erik wasn't afraid. Not because he doubted Charles's competence, or his nerve. Because he trusted Charles not to turn on him.

When had that happened? Had it ever happened to him before?

"I had wondered," Charles was whispering, "when it came to it, if I really could kill for Raven. I guess I found out. It wasn't really for Raven, though, was it? It was for me... but if I'd died Azazel would have… but then he took her anyway. What are they doing with her? Why have they kept her alive? Maybe she got away from them. Maybe she's out in this storm—"

"Don't," Erik snapped when Charles moved as if to disentangle himself and rush out into the snow. "You'd never find her before you froze to death. Don't be an idiot."

Charles let out a sharp, annoyed breath, but settled back down against Erik's chest. After a moment, he gasped and flinched; Erik instinctively tightened his arms around him.

"What's wrong?"

"Tried to find Raven with my telepathy, but it's a bit… overstretched, still."

"Don't hurt yourself," Erik said, exasperated.

"No," Charles murmured, the hint of a smile in his voice, "I shouldn't, not when you're trying so very hard to take care of me." He straightened a bit, the movement pushing his chest against Erik's, and pressed his lips to Erik's cheek.

Only after several seconds of stunned silence was Erik able to ask, "What was that?"

"A thank you. I would have died tonight – quite a few times, actually – if not for you."

"Well. We're even, then, that's all."

Silence again. Snow was piling up outside the cave, helping trap the warmth of their bodies inside; only a faint hint of moonlight on snow could reach them, a faint silver outline on Charles's shoulder and the edge of his cheek. Without entirely meaning to, Erik found himself skimming fingertips down that silver line, across skin that was finally beginning to warm.

"Erik." Charles's voice was soft as the sound of snow settling. "Erik, help me forget everything that's happened tonight. Help me forget that my sister could be freezing to death as we speak. Please, Erik." He slid shaking hands up Erik's chest to cradle his face, and pressed their lips together.

Glowing heat unfolded throughout Erik's body, surprising as a gift, and he pulled Charles closer, fingernails digging into soft skin. Why had he held back from this? If they both died here at least they would die with _this_ in their memories – with Charles's hair like silk between his fingers, his body molding itself to Erik's, his mouth so warm and sweet and perfect…

Erik knew he had no technique to offer, his experience limited to a single awkward kiss after a neighborhood dance two years before. Charles didn't seem to care, winding his arms so tightly around Erik that he could hardly breathe. Erik didn't miss it; he could breathe later. He let Charles take whatever he wanted, shifting so that his own body was between Charles and the jagged, cold stone.

So he was the one, after several too-short minutes of urgent, glorious kissing, who felt it when the stone itself began to shift.

"Charles," he said, pulling away, "Charles, wait—"

A rock tumbled from its place near the top of the entrance to the cave, leaving several others on the edge of dislodging, and letting in a small landslide of snow.

"Oh." Charles's voice, rough and breathless, was the most beautiful thing Erik had ever heard. "Erik, I don't think this cave is very stable."

"So it seems." Erik tried to edge away from the entrance; the movement knocked another stone loose, and he quickly desisted.

Charles sighed heavily. "Well, that puts quite a damper on things." He settled back down onto Erik's chest, nuzzling the crook of his neck.

Erik groaned, certain his body was going to explode, and knocked his head back against the wall – not quite hard enough to shift anything, thankfully.

"It's probably for the best," Charles said weakly. "We'd be sitting ducks if anyone heard us in here. And we can't afford to be too exhausted in the morning." The smile had left his face, and Erik wanted to kick himself for letting Charles be reminded where they were and what was happening.

"I respectfully disagree," he said, but Charles only chuckled and tucked himself under Erik's chin, interlacing their fingers against his chest.

"I think you still have a fever," he said.

"Good," Erik said. "More body heat. Get in the shirt with me."

"What?" Charles laughed. "I don't think there's room, my friend."

They made room – moving very, very carefully – and after all, what did Erik care if his shirt got a little stretched? He was skin-to-skin with Charles now and that was _perfect,_ especially the way Charles was tracing his fingertips absently over Erik's chest, his warm breath brushing the sparse hair there and sending goosebumps across his body.

"I'm glad this has healed so nicely," Charles murmured, touching light fingers to a patch of oversensitive skin, the only reminder of where Sebastian had stabbed him.

Erik made an absent noise of agreement, all his attention on tracing the tiny line of bare skin between Charles's waistband and the hem of the shared shirt.

Charles's shaky sigh sounded far from displeased with that gesture, but he shook his head regretfully. "I don’t know about you, Erik, but I don't want to die in a cave-in. We'll be lucky if we can out of this place in the morning without it falling around our ears."

He was right, of course. Erik sighed and stayed still, trying to will the fire out of his skin. Well… half-heartedly trying. Somehow he'd rather endure the torture of it than let it go.

Somehow Charles's warm weight against his chest reminded him of a cat they'd had, back when Edie was alive. It had liked to sleep with Erik, curled against him for warmth. He couldn't remember what had happened to it. Maybe, without Edie to take care of it, it had just wandered off.

Or died.

Erik tightened his arms around Charles, who was now fast asleep against him. Charles wasn't going to die. Not with Erik to protect him.

_Does that mean you're going to die instead? One victor,_ sang a dark reminder in the back of his mind. _One chance to kill President Shaw, avenge your sister and make the Capitol suffer for what they've done. Are you going to give that up? For him?_

Erik had no answer, and it was a very long time before he could fall asleep.

***

The next morning, when they dug their way out through sun-softened snow, the cave more than half-collapsed behind them. It distracted them enough that they nearly tripped over the silver parachute waiting outside.

"Ha!" Erik's face split in a toothy grin as he pulled a coat from the attached package and held it up for Charles to see. "There's two of these, and shirts – there's two full sets of winter clothes here, Charles!"

"Thank God," Charles muttered, immediately wrapping himself in the coat.

"Thank your district." Erik turned a shirt to show the District 12 seal on the back. "They're both like this."

Charles blinked, taking the shirt from Erik's hand. Though the shirt and coat were newer and finer than anything to be found in District 12, upon inspection they were the same design Cain and the other miners were issued their first day in the mines. The package had to have been sponsored by the people of District 12, and – so large and so valuable – it had to have cost a _fortune._

"And they sent it for both of us," Charles murmured, wonderstruck. "They can't have meant it for Raven, it would be much too big. They sent it for you because you helped me." _You see, Erik? They're paying attention. Districts working together,_ helping _each other!_

_Or they enjoyed the show last night._ The thought was sarcastic but heavily tinged with embarrassment; it hadn't occurred to him until now that there might be cameras in the cave.

It hadn't occurred to Charles either, but he held his head high. He wasn't ashamed of Erik, and if sponsors wanted to coo over their star-crossed romance, he certainly wasn't going to stop them. He didn't know if he could have pretended to love Erik just to get ahead in the Games, but since it was happening anyway…

He grinned and stepped closer to Erik, letting the coat slip off one bare shoulder. "We should hurry and help each other into these clothes, don't you think?"

They were both flushed and breathless by the time they got themselves safely bundled inside the clothes. The new shirt, coat, pants, and gloves (layered over what they already wore) were a heavenly relief after the cold night, though Charles thought it a shame to see Erik's gorgeous narrow waist disappear beneath weatherproofed padding.

"We should get going," Erik murmured, words that were hard to take seriously when he was pressing Charles back against the rocky hillside to kiss and nibble at the underside of his jaw.

"Going where exactly?" Charles pulled himself together enough to ask.

Erik leaned closer, mouth leaving a warm path up to Charles's ear. "Thought we'd – go back up the bluff – still the best vantage point."

To look for the Hellfire Club, and where they might be holding Raven. A chill stole through Charles's body despite the warm new clothes, and he tried to force it down, leaning into Erik's touch.

_Seems like a good plan,_ he sent, mouth being otherwise occupied. _We might be able to recover some supplies, too – or find Sean and Alex and Hank…_

He gave himself another moment, just one moment to relax into the utter bliss of Erik touching him, his mind glowing hot with thoughts of _him,_ of Charles, who could ever have expected it?

_If I hadn't entered the Mutant Games, I would never have had this._ Charles carefully kept the thought to himself. _I would have watched Erik die on a screen, never knowing what we could have, what we could be._ Not that he really knew, even now. But he was determined to find out.

"We really should get going." Charles let all of his reluctance show as he pushed Erik gently back. He quirked an eyebrow hopefully. "We can hold hands on the way?

Erik's expression spoke eloquently of what a shoddy substitute that was, but he clasped his hand firmly all the same. Touching through a double layer of gloves was nothing like feeling each other's skin, but all the same it was reassuring, solid and comfortable.

"Right then," Charles said, "let's go find Raven." They set off through the snow.

 

The volcano that had once been the bluff was no longer erupting, only a trickle of smoke trailing up into the sky. Ash mixed with the snow the closer they came, and then replaced it entirely, the fitful snowflakes steaming away as soon they landed on the hardened lava. It soon became warm enough to unzip their coats, and Charles kept a careful eye on their shoes; melting soles might be their only warning that they'd gone too close to the volcano.

"There," Charles said, pointing to an outcropping of rock that stuck out of the lava flow. "That's where Hank and Raven were. I can't believe Hank survived; I guess his mutation's made him sturdier."

He didn't realize he had stopped walking, staring at the spot where Ororo had fallen, until Erik, turning back for him, placed gloved hands on both his shoulders.

"Charles, listen. That girl from 4, she was going to die anyway. Right? Because Raven's the one you're fighting for, Raven's the one who needs to win. It's rotten the way things fell out, but it didn't really change anything. Did it?"

Charles took a shaky breath, hands settling on Erik's hips. "To look at it that way means I shouldn't mourn for Moira, either, or anyone else we've lost. I should wish Hank had died, I should wish for _you_ to die. I won't think that way, Erik. The whole point is that none of us should be dying at all."

 

Erik kept his eyes on the gaping maw of the volcano as they neared the top.

"I don't feel anything moving in there," he said, "so I think we're safe. I can feel the mechanics of it all the way down…" A thought fluttered across his mind, a concept – tunneling out through the volcano's workings, breaking out of the Arena—

_We're on camera, you know,_ Charles said, _and they'd only have to turn it on to make us into toast. Still… it's an idea to hold onto._

He turned his own gaze toward the landscape spread below them, snow and ash and rivers of rock, the distant lines of the forest and the sea. "There's the Cornucopia," he pointed at the crumpled black shape, now rounded with snow, "but I don't see anyone near it, and the snow looks undisturbed." He took a deep breath, fingertip settling against his temple, and felt no mind but Erik's nearby. He cast the net wider, wider, straining to open himself to any whisper of thought—

When he finally felt one, it was only yards away, and shrouded in cobwebs as cold as snow. Frost, waking up right where he'd left her. "Erik, it's Frost! She's just over the other side, she knows we're here—"

Erik was already running, bits of metal flying from his pockets to join the length of iron rebar he had fashioned into a sword. He dropped over the far lip of the volcano, down the steep side toward the sea, and by the time Charles reached it, had already engaged with Frost halfway down.

"Erik! Erik, wait!"

Frost dodged a blow from the iron sword and did – something – that Charles had caught only a glimpse of before, her body turning to glittering transparent fractals, like diamond or glass. She kicked Erik in the chest, and he half-stumbled, half-rolled down the steep hillside, onto the narrow strand of beach below. Inches from the acid water.

Charles felt a shout leave his throat. He threw out a hand, trying to catch at Frost's mind, freeze her in place, but his power only bounced off the facets. Frost leaped down the side of the bluff toward Erik – only to be thrown back against the nearest lava flow, the iron sword clanking against diamond as it snaked around her throat and wrists.

Charles helped Erik to his feet, Erik keeping one hand outstretched to pin Frost in place.

"She'll know where they've gone," Erik said. "Where they'll have taken Raven."

"Do your worst," Frost said, haughty voice chiming a bit through the diamond. "Even you, little 12, won't get a thing from me while I'm like this."

"She's right, Erik," Charles murmured. "I can't read her mind."

"We'll just have to persuade her to turn back to skin and bone, then." The metal began to tighten around her, stronger than mere iron should have been against diamond – but apparently Erik's power could overcome the metal's natural weakness. Frost's neck began to crack.

"Erik," Charles said, but it had worked – gasping, Frost let the diamond fall away as shimmering dust.

"There," Erik said, sly triumph in his voice. "If she gives you any more trouble, just give her a light tap."

Charles swallowed, but raised a hand to his temple, pushing ruthlessly past Frost's attempts to block him out.

"They moved into the forest when they realized you could get to them at the Cornucopia," he murmured to Erik. "But Azazel transported them – she doesn't know the way back to their camp." He cursed under his breath. "She doesn't know anything about Raven. It was _me_ they wanted last night, that was the primary goal… Sebastian seemed to know something was going to happen to force us off the top of the bluff."

Erik growled. "Of course he did. The President's son – does anyone think he _hasn't_ been cheating from the start?"

Frost may not have meant to give it away, but her mind agreed so fervently that it could not be missed. Charles felt his jaw drop as images flooded his mind – Sebastian and his father looking over maps of the Arena, shaking hands with sponsors before the Reaping even began, getting his shot of mutagen the day before the Games…

_How do you know this?_ Charles demanded. _Surely he didn't tell you!_

_He didn't have to._ Frost couldn't resist the opportunity to be smug. _I read his mind._

_How?_ Whenever Charles had encountered him, Sebastian's mind had been slippery, nebulous, impossible to grasp—

The memory swam to the surface of Frost's mind. Sebastian polishing a sword with a fuzzy cloth, giving himself a static shock – and suddenly his mind was as clear as anyone's, and he didn't even seem to realize it. It only lasted a minute or two, but Frost made the most of it, mining his memory for any advantage she could get. He never even knew she'd been there.

"Charles, what is it?" Erik put an urgent hand on his shoulder.

"She – she knows how to kill Shaw," Charles said.

"And how to kill you," Frost said sweetly, "phoenix-boy who scored a twelve," and Charles cried out as her mind suddenly _stabbed_ into his, cold and sharp, angling for the deepest places, tearing into them as hard as she could—

Charles struck back, dimly conscious of Erik calling his name. The psychic blow was entirely without finesse, but it was forceful enough to send Frost scrambling back to the safe places of her own mind, retreating instinctively into diamond form to keep him from following her.

Charles opened his eyes – he didn't even remember closing them – and found Erik's arm around his chest, holding him up. Erik had one hand extended toward Frost, who was kicking and struggling as the iron tightened around her neck.

"Erik," Charles gasped, "Erik, stop, that's enough—"

There was a sound like breaking glass, and diamond fractals scattered over the sand. A single flash of Frost's fear and despair broke over Charles's mind – and was gone.

A cannon boomed.

_"Why did you do that?"_ Charles thrashed in Erik's grip, gasping as Erik lifted him in an attempt at self-defense, his mind broadcasting confusion and surprise.

"Charles, she was trying to kill us!"

"You didn't have to _do_ that, I had her, I could have—"

"What? You could have what?" Erik pushed him back against the side of the bluff, bracketed him there with unexpected gentleness, their foreheads nearly touching. "Charles, what did you think we were going to do with her? Take her prisoner? Let her go? She'd have stabbed us in the back at the first opportunity – or run ahead to warn the others that we're coming for Raven. Is that what you wanted?"

Charles shook his head. He couldn't meet Erik's eyes, only twist his hands in the front of Erik's coat as he fought for breath, still feeling the echo of another mind falling away into _nothing._

"I know," Erik whispered, gloved fingers tracing down Charles's cheek. "You don't want anyone to die, because you're a good person. It's okay. That's what you've got _me_ for."

Charles swallowed nausea, and tried not to hate himself for leaning into Erik's arms.

***

Their hopes of salvaging supplies were dashed; anything not destroyed by the lava was buried under the ash. Erik pulled a few metal canisters to the surface, but all were burned or melted, their contents destroyed. His stomach growled, but thirst was more urgent; he focused on shaping a scrap of metal into a cup and filling it with snow. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could heat the metal, melt the snow into water.

To even find snow he had to leave Charles alone at the top of the bluff, searching with eyes and mind for their allies. Charles kept a reassuring touch on Erik's mind, so that both of them would know if the other ran into trouble.

_Remember,_ Charles murmured in his mind, as Erik glared at the still-cold metal cup, _more than just pain and anger._

Right. Charles had demonstrated, unforgettably, that positive emotions could fuel his mutation as well or better than the negative ones he'd learned to use first. Erik drew a deep breath, and felt himself smile as he thought of Charles, curled against his chest in the tiny cave, warm bare skin and soft lips—

The cup glowed red, and he had to pull his power back hurriedly, before the melted snow evaporated.

_We have water,_ he called up to Charles.

Charles sent back an image of flickering firelight at the edge of the forest. _And we have friends!_

 

When they reached the boys' camp, the sun was past its zenith, and hunger was making itself more than an annoyance – for Charles, anyway; Erik could see him trying to shake off lightheadedness. Erik was more accustomed to long gaps between meals, but he certainly wouldn't have minded food.

There were _four_ figures gathered around the fire, Erik realized as they approached, and he eased himself in front of Charles – but Charles put a hand on his arm and pulled him back.

_She means us no harm, Erik. Though I can't say she's exactly pleased to see us…_

The fourth figure was Alex's district partner, the red-haired girl Charles had called Foxface. Her expression was a study in wary annoyance, but she was unarmed, and her posture was not aggressive. She still had the water canister she'd filled at the castle, Erik noticed, set by the fire to let the snow inside it melt.

Erik hung back as Charles rushed ahead to hug Sean, Alex, and Hank, all of them chattering excitedly.

"I thought for sure you were dead!"

"We were worried that you would freeze! We had a couple blankets and a fire, but you—"

"Yeah, some weather we’re having, huh?"

"Where's Raven?"

Charles's smile faltered and he turned toward Hank, who had asked the question. The blue fur of his chest was matted with blood, around the edges of a makeshift bandage, but he was standing straight and moving easily.

"They took Raven," Charles said. "But she's alive, and we know where they are. We're going to get her back."

"Good luck with that," the girl snorted.

"Come on, Finch," Alex said. "Join up with us. There's so few of us left, we need every advantage we can get – you as much as us."

"I've already helped you more than I had to," said the girl – Finch, apparently.

"Well, that's debatable," Sean drawled. "I mean, he's technically our phoenix. We shared with _you."_ He gestured toward the fire, and Erik did a double-take. What he had assumed was burning wood was, in fact, a phoenix, nesting calmly on cleared dirt, inside a ring of stones.

"I didn't need your permission," Finch said testily.

"It was the weirdest thing," Alex was saying. "We started looking for our phoenix when the snow started – it's not like the volcano could kill him, right? – and we found him, but he wouldn't be still. He kept trying to get away unless we moved in a certain direction. Turns out she was calling him."

"You talk to animals? That's your mutation?" Charles turned to Finch with open admiration and delight. "That's amazing!"

"He was my phoenix first," Finch said sullenly. "I had to sic him on the Careers so I could get away from them – hey, weren't you with them?" She glared at Erik.

"I was," Erik said evenly. "I'm with him now." He nodded toward Charles, who gave him a dazzling smile, blushing slightly.

"Oh, geez," Sean said. "Alex, pay up."

"Dude, I didn't bet," Alex said softly. "That was Moira."

An uncomfortable silence fell, Charles's eyes going water-bright – and then the air filled with a brassy sound of trumpets.

"Congratulations," boomed the voice of Claudius Templesmith, the Mutant Games announcer, "to the ten tributes who still remain! The Gamemakers are pleased to announce a Feast, arranged to aid you in your struggles. Six hours from now, at the Cornucopia, you will find as much food, clothing, and medicine as you could need. I know this gathering with your fellows will be welcome to both tribute alliances as an opportunity for member exchange! I repeat, both tribute alliances will need to attend in order to effect a member exchange." 

For a moment the words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, before Templesmith spoke again, with all his ludicrous Capitol cheer. "Remember, at the Cornucopia in six hours! May the odds be ever in your favor!"

Trumpets again, and suddenly there were numbers painted brightly against the sky. 5:59:59, and swiftly counting down.


	21. The Calm Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, folks, I'm focusing on original fiction for the month of November, sort of my own version of NaNoWriMo. So it'll be December before the next chapter. I'm sorry!

People were shouting all around him, but to Charles it felt strangely far away. He stared at the numbers in the sky, counting down. Counting down to his chance to save Raven.

"It's not like we don't know what he means," Sean was saying, "so why didn't he just come out and say it? 'Hey Charles, come sacrifice yourself for your sister!'"

"How does this even work?" Alex's outrage burned at the edges of Charles's mind. "They just announce to the air 'Wouldn't it be great if we could get Charles to come trade himself for Raven' and the Gamemakers set it up for 'em?"

"He's not going, though – right?" Hank stammered. "I mean, we're not going to just sit here and let them take him."

"No," Erik snapped, sharp as a thunderclap. Charles closed his eyes for a moment, letting Erik's mind wash over him – anger and fear and iron determination to protect the first person to mean anything to him in so long. "He's not going. Charles, do you hear me?"

"I don't need your permission, Erik." Charles kept his voice gentle, steady, and hoped no one could see his hands shaking. "I will do whatever it takes to protect my sister. That was always the plan."

"And you think handing yourself over to them will protect her? You think you can trust Sebastian Shaw's word?" Erik's hands closed over his shoulders, and Charles opened his eyes. **5:57:15.**

"You idiots can do what you want," Finch was saying somewhere in the background. “I’m not setting foot near that Cornucopia."

"But you could help us, Finch, and we'd help you, we're all in this together—"

"If I don’t show," Charles said, low and hopeless, for Erik's ears only, "they'll kill Raven. Don't tell me they won't. I said I would keep her safe."

"You also said we could destroy the Games," Erik hissed, and Charles clamped a hand around his arm, glancing at the others, at the cameras that surely lay beyond them. Erik growled under his breath and pulled Charles away from the campsite, into the trees. 

They walked farther than Charles expected, until they were out of the others' sight, surrounded only by snow and forest gloom – and then further still, until the snow underfoot turned to mud, and Charles's coat suddenly felt a bit stifling.

"Some kind of heat vent from the volcano, I think," Erik said, gesturing at a clearly-artificial opening in the hillside where warm air billowed out. "It made as good a landmark as any."

"I know you want to talk, Erik, but there's sure to be cameras—"

Erik took a deep breath, and let it out with a sweeping motion of his hands, fingers splayed; all around them, Charles heard pops and crackles, saw sparks as hidden cameras crumpled in on themselves.

He turned back to Charles, locking their eyes together as surely as magnets. "You said we could destroy the Games. And now you're going to surrender. Just roll over and die, give them exactly what they want."

"You think this is what they want?" Charles felt himself half-smile, caught a thought from Erik – a memory of himself on the rooftop, by the pool, eyes lit like a prophet's. "It's what the Hellfire Club wants. It may be what the Gamemakers think they want. But President Shaw? He knows better." Heat prickled along his arms, sweat gathering between his shoulder blades; fear or proximity to the heat vent? Or simply proximity to Erik? "Shaw knows that the system only works by bullying everyone into keeping their heads down. The assumption is that each person will act in their own self-interest. Giving myself voluntarily, self-sacrifice out of love to save someone else – it's exactly what they don't want anyone else to emulate. Whether they see that yet or not, they will. And they"—he pointed to the nearest camera, the now-blinded audience behind it— "I guarantee you they already have."

"It won't be enough."

"And killing President Shaw, that would be enough? Your plan is to cut one head off the hydra. There'll be three more to take his place. I'm aiming at the heart of it. The very process itself. I can show them a better path than violence and despair."

"You aim to fight despair by committing suicide."

"It's not like I want to die, Erik. Now less than ever." Shouldn't have said that, he thought, shouldn't have let myself think it, because now he couldn't help reaching for Erik, resting a trembling hand against his cheek. "But yes, choosing not to survive if it can save my sister, and be the first step toward saving who knows how many others – I could do worse with my life, Erik. You of all people cannot tell me there's no value in dying to make a point."

Erik closed his eyes and swallowed hard, leaning into the hand on his cheek. "But you can't just give up. You can't. It won't work, they'll just kill you both!"

"Yes, you're right about that," Charles murmured, shifting closer to Erik despite the warmth that made his coat a burden now. "Surrendering should be Plan B, at best. If the boys will throw in with us, we might be able to get her away from them without anyone dying."

"By all means," Erik said, relief and exasperation washing against Charles's mind, "let's go with that."

"There's something I need to say before we can make any plans." Finally surrendering to the heat, Charles slid his coat off his shoulders and draped it over a tree limb, Erik hesitantly following suit. "Just in case – in case I don't make it and you do—" He pressed fingers against Erik's mouth, smothering the protest not yet spoken. "I mean it, Erik, you need to know this. Frost had information, gathered from Sebastian's own mind, about how his father helped him – _is_ helping him – cheat. If you make it out of here, you might be able to use that information to bring him down."

"I have a more direct plan in mind, you know."

"Yes, well, I'm still hoping to talk you out of that." Charles's fingers were still against Erik's lips; he withdrew them slowly, letting the touch linger, Erik's awareness of them hot against the edges of his mind. He had to swallow hard before continuing. "You're sure all the cameras are gone?"

"They've already tried to send in more, but I keep smashing them."

_I'll tell you this way, just to be sure,_ Charles sent. _If they know we know this, there's no way they'll let either of us make it out._

The sensation of Erik deliberately opening his mind to him was…distracting, to say the least, sending a shiver down Charles's spine. He pulled himself together and tried to give Erik everything he'd gotten from Frost. It was a secondhand – thirdhand, to Erik – jumble of memories and feelings, but a few things were clear. Secret arrangements between Sebastian and the Gamemakers; early training; details of the Arena even before the Reaping began.

And a very distinct memory of President Shaw giving his son the mutagen early – bestowing a power of his own design – so that he'd be fully recovered and ready to dominate the Games from the first moment.

_"Use this when you need an extra boost," President Shaw had said, pressing a vial into his son's hand. "There's just one dose, and it will need a few hours to kick in, but it will increase the power of your mutation."_

Erik laughed, as Charles passed him that memory, and laughed again, his mind sparking with delight and uncertainty, as if unable to believe his good fortune. 

_Why is this funny, Erik?_

_You said Frost knew how to kill Shaw – is this what you meant? Our best shot is to get that stuff down his throat as soon as possible._ He pushed a memory at Charles – tanks of dye brought into the textile factories, containing the same black-purple liquid as the vial, tanks covered in symbols for "hazard" and "poison" and "death." _He tried to tear off the label but you can still see a corner of it, a few letters, do you see it, Charles?_

Charles focused hard on the memory. _Yes…_ O-P-A on one line, D-E-S on the next.

_Atropa claudes. Nightlock._

Charles just stared at him. Information was still leaking into his mind – that the dye contained only a diluted form of nightlock poison, for instance, and would take days to kill – but he could hardly hear it under the roar of his own disbelief. President Shaw had sent Sebastian into the Arena with _poison?_ If Erik was right, then he'd set up his own son to kill himself.

_Why? Why would he do that to his own son?_

_Maybe he think it's something else,_ Erik shrugged. _How should I know? But it's going to be almost as good as killing the bastard myself, when he realizes._

When you need an extra boost, President Shaw had said. Sebastian might not have taken it yet.

"Charles," Erik said, affectionately impatient, his mind already forming all the reasons that Charles should have no investment in keeping Sebastian Shaw from poisoning himself. Charles cut him off by pressing his hand to Erik's mouth again; he didn't think he could stand, right now, to hear Erik call him stupid for not wanting people to die.

"You're not stupid," Erik whispered against his fingers. "Charles, it's not stupid. I wish we could do things your way. I truly do." He stepped closer, and Charles let himself be gathered into Erik's arms, face buried in the crook of his neck.

They stood that way, huddled together in the warm breeze of the heat vent, for what felt like a long time – but didn't everything feel like a long time in the Games? He had known Erik only thirteen days – ten in the Arena, three in the Training Center – but it felt so much longer. He'd heard Mutant Games victors say it in their interviews over and over, that their Games only lasted fourteen days, or ten, or seven, but it felt so much longer.

"Is that all you wanted to tell me?" Erik murmured. "Is that… is that all you want from me, before we go back to the others?" Nervousness in the words, in the place where their minds touched, nerves and hope and hesitant rising heat.

No cameras right now. No one watching.

Charles couldn't help returning that heat, swaying a little in the pull of it. He looked up at the numbers in the sky. **5:42:11.**

"Five hours for Raven," Erik whispered. "One for—" he knew better than to say _yourself,_ "one for me?"

Charles shivered as Erik's fingertips trailed across his cheekbone, into his hair. "Yes," he said, and pulled Erik's mouth down to meet his.

They kissed, slow and deep, Erik's hands slipping up the back of Charles's shirt and pulling it over his head. After that it wasn't long before all their clothes were piled on the nearest patch of dry ground – and Charles couldn't even think of the last time anyone had seen him naked, surely not since he was a tiny child. But the warmth of Erik's gaze was impossible to deny, and burned through his self-doubt as surely as the snow melted around the heat vent. And the sight of Erik himself was quite the distraction; Charles swept his hands slowly down the outline of him, shoulders to thighs and back again, noting scars and bruises, too much uncushioned bone, all of it breathtakingly beautiful because it was _Erik's._

He wouldn't remember, later, whether it was Erik's idea or his own to lay their coats out on the ground, but he would remember the rustle of the shiny waterproofed fabric as they lay down together, would remember shivering as cold wind battled the hot breath of the vent. Erik caged Charles's body beneath his larger one, mostly because of that shiver – because he needed to feel he was protecting Charles in whatever way he could.

It felt better than Charles had ever dreamed, kissing over and over, bodies twining round each other, the pace of their movements picking up as nervousness warmed and melted away. Erik's mouth wandered across Charles's shoulder and chest and throat – and sucked hard at the tender skin just under his jaw, something Charles felt like lightning down his every nerve ending. He gasped, almost-accidentally arching his hips up into Erik's – and the little breathless noise Erik made then, he wanted to keep that, put it in a locket, pin it to his chest like the phoenix feather he had lost.

"Charles," Erik whispered, his warm glowing mind trying to fold itself inward with embarrassment, "what do you want me to – I'm not sure – I don't know much about how to—"

"Well," Charles said with a laugh, almost giddy as he reached down between them, "I hardly think _this_ can go wrong."

"Yeah," Erik said, his voice suddenly strangled. "That works."

Slushy bits of snow spilled over the edges of the coats as they moved together, a few hardy flakes surviving the blast of the heat vent to settle in Erik's hair, but the tiny shocks of cold were more amusing than annoying. Charles found himself laughing again, in joy and disbelief at their current situation – and Erik smiled, too, their minds now tangled together as thoroughly as their limbs, and just as happily.

Erik's mind was rather like his body, really – sharp and spare and angular, knowing so little comfort in life that he hardly knew what to do when he got it. Charles locked his legs around Erik's preposterously slim waist and ran one hand up his spine, vertebrae bumping his fingertips like cats looking for petting. So thin, so hungry.

_I would have liked to take you home,_ he thought, _fatten you up – we could have run the bakery together, Father left it to me, we could eat all the cakes and tarts and sweet rolls I'm never allowed to have…_

Erik sent warm agreement, inarticulate but snagged on the association between Charles and soft, sweet, stolen things he was never supposed to have – he was taking it anyway, he would take everything he could get. Greedy, selfish words, belied by the gentle way he cradled Charles in his arms. Anything he was taking from Charles he was giving right back again threefold.

Erik would never see the bakery. Charles wouldn't either, never again. He closed his eyes against the unexpected tears and pulled Erik tighter against him.

He felt something starting, soon after that, like some secret box unlocked in his center – or Erik's center, it was impossible to tell anymore. If either of them cried out, he couldn't hear it, everything subsumed by the rush of blinding light.

Afterward, catching their breaths and still tingling, they caught each other's eye and started laughing.

"I don't even know what's so funny," Erik gasped. "I feel like…"

"Like we won," Charles said, grinning fiercely. "We _have_ won something, Erik. No matter what happens now, _this_ happened. They can't take it away from us."

"That's what you meant," Erik said. "When you said that if you were going to die, it would be as yourself. The Capitol can kill us but they can't unmake us, can't make this un-happen." _They can't keep us from loving each other._ Not out loud, that part, and most of Erik's mind wouldn't even admit he thought it. It was ridiculous to think it. They were teenagers who had known each other less than fortnight, they weren't in love.

"Maybe not," Charles whispered. "Maybe being in love takes more time than we've had. Than we'll ever have. But there are as many way to love as there are people to love each other, and I love you, in whatever way, and I'm not afraid to say it."

Erik was afraid to say it, couldn't bear to for reasons too deep and complex for him to examine, but he kissed him, tender and aching as a bruise, and it wasn't as if Charles really needed to hear it aloud.

When the kiss broke, Charles opened his eyes to see the numbers overhead. **4:50:44.** He couldn't help the way his body went still and rigid as memory and sense crept back in, cold as the melting snow trapped under his back.

Erik glanced over his shoulder at the countdown and let out a long breath. Then he kissed Charles one more time, on the forehead – not a kiss goodbye, _not_ – and helped him to his feet.

"Now," he said, "let's go save your sister."

***

Cameras followed them back to camp, swarming angrily behind every leaf and stone – staying out of sight, but they couldn't hide from Erik. He smirked at one and laced his gloved fingers into Charles's.

At the camp, lazy snowflakes hissed on something delicious-smelling as it roasted over the fire, the phoenix nipping at it curiously.

"Hey, welcome back!" Alex called. "Check this out, Finch has a couple of cat-friends that bring her things to eat. There's enough for everyone."

"It's very kind of you to share, Finch," Charles said, taking a share and digging into it with adorable ferocity. The girl only gave him a curt nod, mostly occupied in sitting as far away from Alex as possible on their shared rock at the fireside.

Hank, a damp hunk of wood rocking unevenly beneath him, peered at them narrowly and adjusted his glasses. "What was all that with the cameras?"

"All what?" Charles asked as he and Erik sat on the only remaining rock.

"The flying cameras over the woods. They kept just… crumpling up and falling out of the sky."

The rock was small; they had to sit very close together. Erik unobtrusively put an arm around Charles's waist, as if to balance himself.

"Cameras? I… didn't see anything." Charles raised an eyebrow at Erik, who just grinned. He would take it as a compliment that Charles hadn't noticed the waves of cameras that kept trying to swoop in for a look.

"Uh-huh." Sean, grinning, was looking them over, and Erik was suddenly very conscious of their disheveled hair and clothing. "What's that on your neck, Charles?" 

"Hmm?" Charles raised a hand to the red mark Erik had left there, remembering the moment vividly enough to bleed into Erik's mind and leave them both blushing. "It's nothing," Charles said, which would not have been convincing even if he hadn't been darting a dreamy sideways glance at Erik, which he couldn't help returning.

The boys desperately muffled giggles, all the louder when Erik glared at them; Finch just curled her lip in exasperation with the lot of them and ate faster.

"Right," Charles said when he'd apparently staved off the worst of his hunger. "Erik and I are going to go to the Feast and we're going to get Raven back."

All levity around the fire died.

"We would certainly welcome your help, but we understand if you don't—"

"Of course we're helping," Hank said, his voice a deep rumble. "It's _Raven."_

"Hank, you're injured, you of all people are under no obligation—"

"We're helping," Hank said. "I was going to go even if you didn't. And the injury isn't bad. I'm a lot sturdier than I used to be." He picked distastefully at the dried blood in his fur.

"All right then," Charles said with a soft smile. "There's one. Will anyone else be coming?"

Sean bit his lip but raised his hand. "We signed up to be allies. And we're more than that now, we're friends."

Finch snorted. "You're _rivals,_ don't you understand that?"

"That's the Capitol's idea, not ours," Sean said, and Erik thought Charles might actually burst into tears of pride.

Alex groaned, but raised his hand, too. "Fine, yes, Raven and Charles are our friends and we're going to help them."

Everyone looked at Finch, but she only looked away.

"As I said, no obligation, you least of all," Charles said gently. "You've been more than generous enough sharing your fire and food. Boys…" Words seemed to fail him for a moment. "Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

Erik thought maybe he had it the wrong way round – that the boys didn't know how to tell Charles what it meant to _them,_ to be thrown into this nightmare like clumsy puppies into a dog-fighting ring, and find just one person still willing to make pets of them, love and care for them and tell them they didn't have to kill each other.

"We do need a plan," Charles was saying, and Erik put a hand on his shoulder and stood.

"We do," he said, "and that's where you’re lucky to have a bloodthirsty mongrel like me."


	22. The Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally, finally have this DONE, all the way to the end. There will be 25 chapters including the epilogue; I will post Ch. 23 tomorrow, and 24 & epilogue the day after.

**00:00:52**  
**00:00:51**  
**00:00:50**

Charles stared at the countdown in the sky, reaching into his pocket for the feather he'd taken from Finch’s phoenix. He could only assume that his original token, the feather he’d taken from Buttercup what seemed like a lifetime ago, was ashes among ashes, back at the ruins. He wondered if Raven still had hers. He kissed the feather – a great gesture for the cameras, he supposed, Logan should be proud – before rising from his crouch behind the ridge of the hill. The same hill he and his allies had fled over, those first chaotic minutes in the Arena; the first hill to rise from the snow-rimed beach where the Cornucopia sat.

Telepathy had already given him some idea of the situation that waited at the bottom of that hill. Raven's mind was torn between terror and utter fury; Sebastian had her bound and gagged, he could sense, and she still had the taste of Azazel's blood in her mouth to explain why. The blank spot of Sebastian's slippery mind waited with her behind the crumpled metal horn. Azazel, bloodthirsty and confident, was concealed inside the Cornucopia itself, his mutation allowing him to skip in and out despite its jagged impassible mouth. Angel waited behind another hilltop, pretending her palms weren't sweating, tracing and retracing the decisions she'd made in the Arena, telling herself she still had a shot at survival and that was all she cared about.

Making his way carefully down the icy hillside, Charles could see tables laid out in front of the Cornucopia; the Feast, as promised. It seemed horribly sad and wasteful. He couldn't imagine that any of the food, clothing, medicine or supplies waiting there would actually be used. No one was here for that.

Sebastian stepped out from behind the Cornucopia, one hand holding a sword, the other pulling Raven along by her hair; she staggered and glared at him, trying futilely to pull away.

"Welcome to the Feast, Charles," Sebastian called heartily. "All alone? Aren't the others coming?"

"They're not insane, or so they assure me." Charles tried to sound bitter; succeeded, judging by the smug swell of Sebastian's chest, the droop of Raven's shoulders. "What does it matter? I'm here, just like you wanted. Let her go."

Sebastian looked down at Raven in apparent consideration, holding her out at arm's length. "Where will she go, do you imagine? Do you really think she has the slightest chance of surviving without you?"

"Well, I figure her chances can only go up from here."

Sebastian shook his head. "What must it feel like, to be such a sentimental idiot? Trust me, Twelve, killing her here, quick and clean, would be a mercy. But I guess that's on you. Come say goodbye, then."

Charles shook his head. "No, I'm not getting close to you until I know Raven's safe. You let her come to me."

"What, so you can break the deal and run off together?"

"Like you couldn't catch us." The bitterness wasn't hard to simulate, this time. "You're getting what you want, Sebastian. All I ask is to be sure I don't die for nothing."

Raven was staring fixedly at him, grimacing around her gag, her mind screaming _Don't trust him, it's a trap, it's a trap, he's just going to kill us both._

 _I know,_ he assured her. _I'm not as alone as I seem._

Sebastian, though, was giving him a faux-rueful smile. "I gave you a chance to say goodbye and do this easy. Not my fault you didn't take it." He pulled Raven up close again, a knife's point pressing into her throat, and shouted, "Azazel!"

Smoke exploded into Charles's eyes. He saw metal flash, arcing down toward him—

And Erik burst over the top of the hill, one hand splayed before him. With a shout he clenched and twisted it, and Azazel's sword flew from his hands toward Erik.

Charles was conscious of Sean, Hank and Alex all erupting from their hiding places. He tried to freeze Azazel in place with his mind, but as before the teleporter was too fast to pin down; he'd already vanished and reappeared, flinging himself at Erik with a cry of rage. 

Charles turned toward Raven and Shaw, and saw Raven _changing._ Her gag and wrist-bindings snapped as she nearly doubled in size, suddenly covered in blue fur. She didn't try to fight Sebastian – good, with his mutation she'd never win – but ducked easily out of his startled hold and ran toward Charles.

All around Charles, fear and excitement and rage burst from the minds of ally and enemy alike, and it was dizzying, trying to keep track of everyone – trying to get a grip on Azazel, warning Sean that Angel was coming up on his left – even as he reached Raven, pushed her ahead of him toward the hill. He didn't look for Sebastian; the oily blank of his mind was coming up behind them all too quickly. _Erik!_

Ahead of them, Erik dropped his clash with Azazel as if the other boy had stopped existing, Hank stepping in to engage the teleporter's attention before he could stab Erik in the back. Erik spared Charles only the barest of glances as he ran past them toward Shaw, but it was more than enough; there was little that needed saying between them now.

Hank glanced up at Charles and Raven as they ran past, and startled at the sight of Raven shifted to his own shape; the distraction nearly cost him a sharp-pointed tail to the eye, but Alex cut loose a blast of plasma that Azazel had to teleport to avoid. 

Charles could feel something wrong with Alex – not injured, he didn't think, but in pain all the same, his focus faltering, breath coming too fast. There was no time to sort it out.

Beyond the Cornucopia, shrill screams echoed as Sean swooped low over the ground, dodging attacks from the more maneuverable Angel. _Alex, help Sean,_ Charles sent, and finally crested the hill, removing Raven from the Hellfire Club's line of sight.

"Raven, run," he panted. "Get out of here. That way – there's a fire, at the edge of the woods, the girl from 5 is there, she won't hurt you—"

"What? Charles, I'm not leaving without you!"

"Raven, the whole point of this was to get you safely away, now _go—"_

Azazel appeared above them with a burst of smoke. Raven screamed, and Charles threw himself instinctively over her, one hand flung uselessly toward Azazel – who never landed, Hank leaping onto him with a roar. They tumbled down the hillside. 

Raven threw Charles off and raced after them, pink skin replacing blue. "Azazel, stop!" she cried in Sebastian's voice.

Azazel looked up, startled – and paid for it when Hank kicked his feet out from under him, and dropped both heavy blue fists like hammers onto his face.

A cannon fired.

For a moment they all stared, panting, Charles flinching through the telepathic echo of death. Raven's form fluttered back to blue scales, and she ran to Hank's side – helping him lower himself to the ground as dark patches of blood spread through his fur.

"I'm okay," Hank said breathlessly, a transparent lie. "I'm okay, Raven, I just need to catch my breath – you need to go, both of you get out of here—"

"Charles," Raven whispered, looking from Hank's wounds to him, as if he could fix them. Still gulping air, Charles knelt down next to Hank, trying not to think about the shattered corpse just inches away, trying to think of something, anything he could do for Hank.

There was nothing. Not only had Hank's previous sword-wound to the chest reopened, pouring blood, but he had at least a half dozen new wounds, deep slashes and punctures made, Charles guessed, by Azazel's blade-ended tail. Stopping the bleeding seemed a hopeless prospect; nevertheless, Charles was reaching for the hem of his shirt to at least try when he saw the last wound – a deep gash across the artery in Hank's thigh.

Nothing less than a hospital could save Hank from that. Meeting Hank's eyes, already hazy with blood loss, Charles could see that he knew it.

"Raven?" Hank murmured, and fumbled for her hand; she clasped his tightly, heedless of the sharp claws that threatened to prick her skin. "You're going to be okay, Raven. Everything's going to be okay."

Raven, weeping, did not reply. Blood was spreading swiftly across the half-melted snow, soaking the knees of Charles's pants.

Charles tried to shut off his telepathy, shield himself from the death he knew was coming – but then changed his mind, reaching out to Hank instead and doing what he could to ease the boy's pain and fear.

It made things much worse, when Hank's consciousness shrank and dimmed and then faded away – _Hank,_ his friend, vanishing into darkness, and Charles struggled to breathe through the sick disorientation. The cannon boomed somewhere overhead.

"Hank?" Raven said, knowing she would get no answer. "Hank?"

Charles put his arms around her, and she let herself be embraced, sobbing into his shoulder.

"Let's go," Charles whispered. "Come on, we need to get away from here."

"No," Raven said. She pushed away from him and stood, her eyes hard even through the glitter of tears. "We need to kill those piece of trash Careers."

"Raven—" But Charles was distracted from his protest by a burst of noise, both physical and mental, from the other side of the hill. To his ears, it sounded like flames; to his mind, pain and surprise and a sudden deepening of fear, particularly from Erik.

Raven pulled away from him and ran towards the fight, Charles following as fast as he could.

His ears had been right about the flames; they were everywhere, in total defiance of logic, as if the snow and sand themselves were flammable. Why not? Charles growled to himself. It makes as much sense as anything ever does in the Arena. Everything here was fake, after all, and it fit with Sebastian's other advantages thus far, that he be able to burn whatever he wanted to burn.

Because Sebastian was definitely the source of the fire. It exploded from his footsteps as he gleefully dodged the shards of metal Erik threw at him; he was circling Erik, Charles realized, trapping them both inside flames that would only hurt one of them, and Erik knew it. Why wasn't he backing off? More importantly, why wasn't he hitting Sebastian with the electromagnetic shock like they'd practiced?

 _I'm trying,_ Erik sent as Charles and Raven pulled up even with Alex, halfway down the hill. The air shimmering around Erik wasn't just from heat; he was trying to gather up a shock, but it hadn't been easy for him even in practice, and it was apparently proving even harder in combat.

"I could get a shot at Sebastian," Alex was saying urgently, a strange misery pouring from his mind like a fog, "I know you said not to, but I could get him from here—"

"You'd just be giving him more ammunition," Charles said. "I thought you were helping Sean?"

"I couldn't keep up," Alex said, and Charles realized he was panting and pale, swaying on his feet. "I don't know – something's wrong with me, I don't know…"

Charles frowned and reached for Alex's shoulder, rifling through his recent memories, trying to figure out what was happening—

"Finch stole the vial," he said, his stomach suddenly feeling like lead. "She stole it from Sebastian, and she—she shared it with you—"

"She crept up to their camp and overheard him talking about it," Alex gasped, "said it was some kind of power enhancer, said it would help us."

"That's what Sebastian was told," Charles whispered. "Oh, Alex."

Shrieks echoed overhead and Sean swooped by, his patchwork makeshift wings spread wide. The briefest touch of his mind showed that he was near panic; it was all he could do to evade Angel's attacks, much less return them.

Charles put his hands on Alex's cheeks. "Try to help Sean," he said, voice shaking, and he was a coward, he was too great a coward to tell Alex he was dying. "Raven, stay here with him." He cut off her protest. _"Please,_ just stay safe for now. I have to help Erik."

He ran down toward the sand and the fire.

To get close to Erik, he had to take off his coat and beat out a line of flames with it, leaving the singed clothing behind as he ran to Erik's side. He and Sebastian were circling each other slowly, Erik bleeding from cuts scattered across his face and his outstretched hands – hands that were keeping a cloud of metal shards flying around Sebastian. If he meant them to keep Sebastian back, the Career's expression implied it was only working so long as the attempt amused him. As Charles approached, Sebastian caught one piece and tossed it carelessly back to Erik, who barely ducked it in time.

"Oh, and here comes Young Master Twelve to join the party," Sebastian called cheerfully. "Even better. I hope the cameras get a good angle of me taking you both out at once."

He clapped his hands together, and fire exploded from them, billowing towards Charles and Erik with unmatchable speed – but aimed a bit high. Or so Charles assumed, since Erik's tackling him to the ground succeeded in keeping them both alive, if scorched.

"Oh, hold still," Sebastian said, affecting a bored tone as he flung bits of metal toward them, Erik struggling to knock them aside quickly enough. "You're just going to make the Victory Dinner inconveniently late in the day."

Charles let Erik drag him to his feet. "You still think you'll win," he called to Sebastian. "You really still think that."

Sebastian's eyebrows rose. "Why on earth wouldn't I, when it looks more likely every moment?"

"Because they don't want you to win. The Gamemakers, your father – they can't afford for you to win, Sebastian." He reached unobtrusively for Erik's hand. _Let me keep him distracted. You need to focus on that shock._

Sebastian looked smug. He had stopped throwing things. "Little boy, you have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I? How odd, that after all the… advice… your father was able to give you, here you are, nine days into the Games, with so many still left to oppose you."

Sebastian shrugged. "Hardly a record, for the Games."

"True, but it's always thinned down to the real threats by this point, hasn't it? The ones who might actually have a chance to win. You have quite a lot of competition, Sebastian. Considerably more than you expected, I'll wager."

That scored a hit; Charles didn't need telepathy, he could see it in the thin line of Sebastian's mouth. He'd expected to win by now, or at the very least to be preparing to turn on his allies after they'd wiped out everyone else.

Beside him, Erik let out a sharp breath of effort, and the air around them condensed briefly, a peculiar shimmering tightness – but it got away from him before he could form it into electricity. Sebastian cocked his head and frowned.

"Whatever the pair of you are up to," he said, "I think it's time for me to—"

Charles cried out, clutching his head, and his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. On the other side of the Cornucopia's crescent of beach, Angel had just knocked Sean out of the sky.

For a moment he was Sean, his body a broken burning thing on the sand, his mind retreating from pain and fear even if it meant never coming back, there was no reason to come back, no hope of survival—

 _Go to sleep, Sean, it's all right,_ Charles said, and that was all it took for Sean to let go entirely.

The cannon fired, and Charles only just disentangled his mind from Sean's in time to keep himself from falling after him into the darkness. Erik was trying to hold him up with one hand and counter an attack from Sebastian with the other – Charles needed to focus, to bring himself back—

Alex seemed to fill the entire Arena with a surge of desperate anger at his own helplessness, his horror at having to watch Sean fall. The plasma blast that ripped from his body was the first one to ever go exactly where he wanted it to—

Then Charles was Angel, falling from the sky with her wings burned and tattered, screaming as the acid sea closed over her head.

The pain of the acid was indescribable. It probably would have killed her within moments, but Charles couldn't bear to wait. Almost without deciding to, he shut down Angel's mind, stopped it as he had Ororo's, instant and painless.

Another cannon.

"You're out of allies, Sebastian," Charles gasped, forcing himself away from Alex and Raven's grief and fear, back into his own body, into the strength of Erik's grip on his arms. He was dimly conscious that his face was wet, drying rapidly in the hot drafts of the surrounding fire. "You're all alone. Everyone you thought could help you, they're either dead or they've betrayed you."

Sebastian frowned. He had moved closer while Charles was incapacitated. "Who's betrayed me?"

"Your father. I know what he gave you. I know what Finch stole."

"My token," Sebastian snarled, "stole my token, that little—"

"And it's killing her. She shared it with Alex, and look at him." Charles pointed up the hillside, and Sebastian warily followed his gaze – just in time to see Alex stagger and collapse to the ground. Sebastian went pale.

Charles could feel Erik repressing his dismay for Alex, who would, he told himself, have had to die anyway. He could only afford to be disappointed that it wasn't Sebastian himself. "Sebastian," Erik said, smug and vicious with knowledge of the pain the words would cause, "have you ever heard of nightlock?"

Sebastian was still staring at Alex's crumpled form, at Raven shaking his shoulder.

"You're just part of the show," Charles said, his voice strained by his divided focus as he tried to ease Alex's pain and confusion, tried to telepathically hold Raven's hand. "Did you really think President Shaw could let you win? Both his own credibility and that of the Games would be shattered. No, you're much more useful to him dead, as proof of his impartiality, proof of the fair and evenhanded nature of the Games."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"He sent you here with _two_ other tributes with telepathy, the only mutation that could even hope to counter your mutation. Maybe three – who knows how much further Jean's mutation might have progressed, given the chance. And just in case that failed, he set you up to cut your own throat."

Sebastian forced a laugh. "Are you listening to yourself? I'm _immune_ to telepathy."

"I do wonder how that would have gone," Charles said thoughtfully, "with more than one of us working together? But never mind. Turns out there are other ways." He reached for Erik's hand, and touched his temple with the other, diving deep into Erik's mind.

He could see the problem at once, why Erik had been unable to focus enough to manage the shock – faced with the boy whose father had killed Edie, Erik's mind was flooded with rage and fear and grief and hunger for revenge, too unstable to give him the proper grip on his power.

 _Calm,_ he whispered. _Remember crumpling the Cornucopia – remember how that felt? You can do it again._

Erik's fingers tightened around Charles's, the whirling metal pieces falling unregarded even as his other hand flung out toward Sebastian, shaking with effort. Charles could feel the turmoil in his mind easing, gathering to fuel his power instead of distract from it. This time, the bright memory lending him focus was not of Edie – thoughts of her were too charged for this moment – but of… of Charles himself, of warm limbs tangled together on cold coats, snow in his hair and a sweet, dreamy smile on his face as he looked up at Erik.

"Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't working," Sebastian drawled, stepping casually closer with his hands in his pockets. The fire around them was not dying out, as Charles had hoped it might, but growing steadily, creeping across vaporizing snow and sand that was melting to glass. "Here's what I'm thinking, Erik. Whatever reason you had for taking up with the little phoenix has surely expired by now. Me and you – that's what this Game ought to come down to."

Erik's eyes focused suddenly on Sebastian's face. He was drawing closer, still nonchalant, and Charles tried to step back but they couldn't go far without meeting the fire – and anyway Erik couldn't move without losing focus and Charles couldn't leave him – Another step, and Sebastian was surely too close they should never have let him get this close—

"I can take out the 12 if you'll just keep holding him so obligingly still for me," Sebastian said, and belated alarm ricocheted through Erik's mind as Sebastian scooped a sharp slice of metal longer than his arm off the ground and bounced it thoughtfully in his grip. "The sister will be nothing. And then it's just you and me, and you finally have a shot at that revenge you're so concerned about. It's the only way to get what you want."

Erik bared his teeth, too widely to really be called a smile. The air before him shimmered and condensed—

Sebastian swung the long spike of metal, too fast and too strong for Charles to dodge—

Only for Raven to intercept it, leaping through the wall of flames around them with a scream and slapping it out of the air bare-handed. She had shifted an armored shape like Darwin's, but the edges of it were smoking; between the pain of fire, metal slicing her hands, and her body heavily hitting the ground, she lost her grip on the shape and reverted to blue scales.

"Raven!" Charles screamed as his sister rolled away from Sebastian's kick, came up with the spike in her bleeding hand and swung it at him. Charles wrenched his hand out of Erik's grip and started forward—

—the air shimmered condensed and _exploded_ in a burst of blue-white that left all of Charles's hair standing on end.

 _"Now,_ Charles!" Erik shouted.

And Sebastian's mind opened, unfolded before him like a scenic vista revealed on the other side of fog – but not fast enough. Sebastian had already snatched the spike out of Raven's hand and pinned her to the ground with it buried in her chest.

Charles couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Everything was still and crystalline-clear and silent.

And then it all seemed to explode at once, faster louder harder and he was screaming, screaming for Raven as her pain and fear flooded his mind, the cartwheeling turmoil of Erik's mind filling in the gaps, and Sebastian – Sebastian's mind trying to close again, the fog rolling back in. Charles, dimly conscious that he had fallen to his knees, clutched at his head with one hand and flung the other toward Sebastian, scrabbling to get a hold of him with Erik already advancing, his faith in Charles's protection absolute.

Sebastian pulled the metal spike free of Raven's body and flung it toward Erik; Charles shoved himself to his feet with a cry, but Erik shattered and deflected the spike with a sweep of his hand, and finally Charles got his claws properly into Sebastian's mind, clamping down on it with everything he had. He barely noticed that he was on the ground again, barely noticed that something in his back was hurting. That didn't even begin to matter right now.

"Raven." Unable to manage more than a whisper, he reached out with his mind instead. _Raven!_

 _Charles!_ She lay curled around the wound in her chest, blood pouring over her hands. _I can't breathe. It hurts. Charles, it hurts._

"You're right, you know," Erik was saying, stepping slowly closer to Sebastian. "Letting the Game come down to you and me – it would be the best way to get revenge."

"Please, Erik, just kill him," Charles said between gritted teeth, trying to crawl toward Raven. "Get it over with, please."

Sebastian didn't reply, of course, frozen in place with one hand still outstretched. To Erik's perceptions he was silent, but Charles could hear his mind screaming, thrashing in Charles's grip. Charles wasn't sure how long he could even hold him still. Shutting him off the way he'd done Ororo and Angel wasn't any kind of option.

"Make it look like you have a chance," Erik continued. "So close to winning. How could a tenement rat from District 8 really pose a threat? That's what they thought about Edie, you know."

 _"Please,_ Erik." Even trying to send the words telepathically, Charles could tell he wasn't getting through. Raven was – Raven was – Raven needed him and Charles couldn't get his body to work, he couldn't let up his focus on Sebastian or he'd kill Erik but _Raven needed him_ and the only thing in Erik's head was the image of the ghost-mutt that had killed Edie, flipping a coin over her body.

A cannon went off and Charles gasped but it wasn't Raven, she was still looking at him across the expanse of sand, firelight dancing over her blue scales. It had been Alex, Charles realized, as the poor poisoned boy's sudden absence ripped across his perceptions, very nearly costing him his grip on Sebastian.

"It would have been a more perfect revenge," Erik said, pulling the coin from his pocket. "Unfortunately for you, that's not my biggest concern anymore. Killing you here and now will do nicely." The coin lifted off the palm of Erik's hand and floated across the few inches between him and Sebastian, centering itself between Sebastian's eyes.

Charles's world narrowed to that coin, to the necessity of maintaining his hold on Sebastian's mind, on the power that would have thrown Erik's weapon back at him, as the coin inched through skin, bone and brain – the physical pain negligible, but sparking a complete frenzied panic in Sebastian that left Charles screaming on the ground, nails cutting into his scalp.

 _Help me_ was the last coherent thought in Sebastian's mind, _you promised, Daddy, help me, Daddy, please—_

Finally the coin ground its way out the back of Sebastian's skull, and his torn and bleeding brain shut down, death washing out from him with a strength that stole the breath from Charles's screams. It was all Charles could do to keep himself from being swept out with that tide as it vanished into blackness. Sebastian's body dropped limply to the sand, to the sound of the cannon's boom.

Erik just stood there, hand still outstretched, one unheeded tear trailing slowly down his face. Charles tried to get up and couldn't. Something that had been hurting very badly had now stopped. He thought that was probably good.

"Charles." Raven struggled to her feet – didn't quite make it, but close enough that she could cover ground, could get to him and collapse beside him. "Charles, are you okay?"

"Am _I_ okay," he repeated, dimly aware that no, he probably wasn't, but that was laughably irrelevant now. "Just – be still, Raven, we can try to – we need to stop the bleeding—"

"And then what, Charles, take me to the hospital?" Her voice was choked and rough, and she seemed to be having trouble breathing – but her smile was gentle as she pulled his hands away from the bloody mess of her wound.

Erik had stepped closer, and Charles tried to block out the horror and dismay that had begun to chill Erik's vicious satisfaction at Sebastian's death. Raven was the important thing right now.

A cannon fired, and Charles gasped, shaking Raven's shoulder – but she was still conscious, still breathing.

"Finch," he realized, "that must have been Finch, the poison catching up to her," poor Finch who had only wanted to stay out of it all, whose one favor for her district partner had killed him instead. "Raven, you're going to be all right, you have to be all right, I'm here to protect you—"

"It's okay, Charles, you tried your best. It's okay." She closed her eyes, frowning with effort, and her scales began to turn sluggishly, shifting into pink skin, golden hair. Trying to look like his baby sister again. When she stopped, gasping, her hands were still blue and her eyes yellow, but Charles hardly cared. He pulled her closer, stroking her hair – and tried not to notice he was smearing blood into it.

"I'm not afraid," Raven said, which was a lie, he could feel her fear like acid on his skin – he reached for it, tried to smooth it away, muted her fear and pain and tried to replace them with comfort and safety. He felt her relax further into the sand, her smile becoming softer – and her mind hazier, consciousness starting to fade. "It's okay, Charles. You're going to be okay. These are good luck, remember?" She pushed a ragged, bloodstained phoenix feather into his hand. "Protection. Now you can survive anything, just like a phoenix. Remember?" Her voice went distant, eyes losing focus. "Tell mommy everything's okay, 'cause we're a phoenix..."

"Raven…" She was slipping away. Charles tried to hold her, force her mind to stay where it was, but the edges slid out of his grasp, slid away, away into the dark. _"Raven!"_

Overhead, the cannon boomed.


	23. Destroying the Games

Erik knew that speaking now, that trying to make Charles leave his sister, would be unforgivable. He also knew it had to be done anyway.

"Charles. You have to get up." No reply. "Charles, we've got acid on one side of us and fire on the other. If we're going to have any chance of getting out of here, you have to get up, right now."

Charles just lay there, staring at Raven, whose eyes he had thankfully closed. It wasn't like Erik couldn't understand why. His own chest was burning with something he couldn't examine, some tangle of rage and grief because he'd _liked_ Raven, the fiery reckless little girl who didn't stand a chance, the girl who was someone's sister, another sister lost in the Games – but they didn't have time. He bent, grasped Charles by the shirtfront, and hauled him to his feet.

He wasn't sure whether to expect resistance or not, but he definitely _didn't_ expect Charles's breathless shriek of pain, or the way he fell back to the sand as pure deadweight.

Erik grabbed at him in alarm, pulling him into his lap. "Charles, what—"

"I can't," Charles gasped, tears streaking his face. "Erik, I can't – I can't feel my legs."

Something dropped out of Erik's insides. He ran a hand instinctively down Charles's spine, felt warm blood – and a shard of metal, buried deep into the flesh at the small of his back. His metal-sense recognized it as part of the metal spike Sebastian had killed Raven with, the one Erik had deflected into spinning fragments – without really watching where they went. He was abruptly certain that he was about to be sick.

"I can't feel my legs," Charles was saying again, "I can't feel my legs," and Erik struggled to breathe, to force the sickness away. They couldn't afford it right now.

"They can fix it," Erik said desperately. "The Capitol – I've seen them fix worse, after the Games. Right now we've got to get out of here. _Look."_ He pointed to the fire Sebastian had started, the impossible sand-burning fire that had spread around them as they fought. It was a roaring wall of flame now, its light gleaming in the blood on Erik's hands, and it covered most of the beach, sand turning to glowing glass. It was even creeping up the sides of the Cornucopia, the _metal_ Cornucopia, burning it to ash. "There's still a path, but it won't last long – over that way, do you see it? We can run between the fire and the water, up to that hillside…" Cliffside, really, and it would have been a hard and risky climb for either of them. Carrying Charles…

He saw Charles reach the same conclusion, felt all tension – all hope – drain from the bleeding body in his arms. 

"Go," Charles said softly, one hand curling almost absently into Erik's shirt, warm fingers over his heart. "It's all right. Go."

"Leave you?" Erik was almost surprised by the spark of anger in his voice, it seemed so far from what he was actually feeling. "Leave you here to _burn?"_

"Don't you understand?" Charles snapped. "We're the only ones left. There's no point in – in fighting, no point in anything. If you don't want to leave me, then just kill me and get it over with. That's better anyway, you won't even need to escape, the Game will be over and they'll rescue you."

"Or you could kill me. You don't even need a weapon."

"You know I'm not going to do that."

"But you think I would?"

"You have to! Please, just do it – don't let me burn." The last words seemed to slip out involuntarily, frightened and pleading; if Charles had hoped to convince Erik to just leave him, there was no chance of that now. But there never had been.

Erik took a deep breath, glancing over his shoulder at the slowly narrowing escape path. His hand had somehow come to rest on Charles's chest, which rose and fell shakily, heartbeat racing against Erik's palm. He could do what Charles said, make it quick and all but painless. The moment that racing heartbeat stopped, the Games would be over. He'd be the victor. He would finally get his chance at President Shaw.

No one could blame him for it. There was no way to get Charles out of here alive, and even if he did, what was the point? With only the two of them left, one of them would _have_ to die to end it. Putting it off was just delaying the inevitable.

But it had always been about delaying the inevitable.

"You've forgotten your own principles, Charles," Erik said. "Or didn't you mean all that nonsense you said about not playing the Game?"

Charles looked at him sharply.

"Refuse to kill each other just because they told us to," Erik hissed. "Make the Gamemakers do their own dirty work. They control us by making us try to win. Well, I'm not trying to win anymore."

Charles just stared at him, but something in his eyes had steadied.

"I tell you what, I'll flip you for it," Erik said, and extended a hand to catch Edie's double-headed coin as it flew to him, shaking off blood as it went. "Tails I kill you. Heads I take you with me." He flipped it without even looking, and felt his lips – dry in the burning air – crack as he grinned. "What do you know, I win."

An answering smile, brilliant and disbelieving and desperately sad, stole across Charles's face. He looked over his shoulder at Raven's body for a long moment, then pulled Erik down and kissed him, brief but fierce. "Then let's go."

 

They almost made it. 

The fire had spread nearly as far as they could see, creeping up on them with incredible heat and reducing their escape route to a few inches; with Charles heavy on his back, Erik ran through the leading edges of acid waves, boots hissing, legs stinging as splashed droplets burned through his trousers. Halfway along, they heard the hovercraft behind them, collecting the bodies – in a hurry to collect Sebastian Shaw, Erik figured, before his corpse could get unattractively roasted, but at least Raven's parents would benefit from the hurry as well.

The narrow path closed steadily around them, fire eating its way down the sand to the very edge of the water. The heat drove Erik further into the sea, then the burn of acid drove him back toward the flames; there was nothing for it but to keep running. Erik called for Charles to keep his head down, and went faster.

And then they were through, choking on smoke but _through,_ into a momentarily flame-free pocket at the base of the steep hill. If they could beat the fire to the top…

They couldn't. Erik had known that when they started. He tried anyway, and cut Charles off with a curt "Hold on tight" when he tried to tell him again to leave him behind.

The climb wasn't quite straight up, but Charles was heavy and unable to hold on with his legs. Erik tried to grip his buttons, buckles, even the iron rebar deep inside the hill – but he'd done something to his power, making the electromagnetic shock that opened Sebastian's mind. When he tried to hold anything for very long, it just slipped away.

And then Charles, _Charles_ was slipping away, shifting sideways because Erik had to use both hands to climb. The weight yanked Erik to the side and he scrabbled for purchase on the rocky hillside, trying at the same time to reach back for Charles—

He didn't even remember falling, only finding himself at the bottom, pain radiating from his legs, his head, and everywhere in between. He forced his eyes open, though they wouldn't quite focus. The fire all around them was only a shifting expanse of red-and-gold light, almost beautiful.

"Charles," he croaked, and coughed on smoke, feeling around weakly – he had to be here—

He found him, limp and motionless, head bloodied. Erik pressed frantic fingers to his neck – pulse still beating. For all that it mattered now. They wouldn't be getting up that hillside; Erik's right leg was bending the wrong way.

Charles shifted, breath snagging on a pained noise, and a sliver of blue appeared under half-open eyelids. "Erik?"

 _No, no, don't wake up,_ Erik begged silently, careful not to project the thought. "It's all right, Charles," he managed through a smoke-clogged throat. "Rest. It's all right."

 _Okay,_ Charles responded, too woozy to speak aloud. The very tips of his fingers slid across Erik's cheek, trailing a projected sense of reassurance and relief. Then it faded, Charles's eyes slipping shut again.

Erik's head hurt so much, felt so cloudy and dark… and getting darker. He pulled Charles close, curling his own body around him to shield him from the fire as long as possible. His heart was beating very fast, he noted distantly. He was probably afraid. It made sense that he would be, since he had maybe a few seconds of consciousness left before the lights went out for good.

Better use them wisely.

Erik found the metal of the nearest camera, hovering only a few meters away with no attempt at subtlety. He leaned in to kiss Charles one last time, and used the last of his strength to give the camera his middle finger.


	24. The Victor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Traveling, ugh. Epilogue to follow tomorrow!

_Erik?_

There was no reply to the instinctive spark of thought. In fact, Charles couldn't sense anyone nearby at all. His head spun, cool air and white electric light only confusing him further. He remembered fire, rocks and dirt…

Raven was dead. That memory hit him with concussive force, driving the breath from his lungs. He'd failed. He'd failed to protect his little sister.

"Easy there, Charles," said a man's voice, unfamiliar, the tones comforting and yet somehow the voice set Charles's nerves on edge. He managed to get his eyes fully open – and recoiled, bewildered by the sight of Sebastian Shaw seated next to his bed.

No, not Sebastian Shaw – at any rate, not the boy who had died crying for his father. This was the father himself, President Sebastian Shaw, Sr. The spitting image of his son, but decades older, and currently with stark shadows under his eyes.

"You're safe now, Charles," the man said, and the cold hatred in his soft voice was enough to have Charles feebly trying to crawl away from him, pulling himself to the side of the hospital bed. He reached for his telepathy again, still sensing nothing – was Shaw like his son, immune?

"In fact, congratulations are in order," President Shaw continued. "If you haven't caught on yet, you're the victor of the 74th Annual Mutant Games."

Charles stared, horror like a live thing twisting in his stomach, because that would mean—

"Yes, Erik's dead," President Shaw said casually. "His heart stopped before yours. Though yours did stop as well – twice, if you count in the hovercraft. Gave us quite a scare, Charles. You nearly left us without a victor." His eyes were hard as glass. "Isn't that a terrible thought? How in the world would we have explained that to the millions of people watching?"

Charles knew he ought to be afraid, knew logically that he was in a great deal of danger. He couldn't bring himself to care. Erik was dead. He was alive and Erik was dead.

His legs were moving, he noted distantly as he sat up. Erik had been right, the Capitol could fix nearly anything.

A scream lodged itself in Charles's throat at the thought, at the memory of Erik's voice, Erik's arms cradling him. There were tears on his face and he had nothing to fight them with. Again he tried to reach out with his mind, for someone, anyone who might help him – but of course his telepathy was gone. Victors were stripped of their mutations.

"You've been resurrected, Charles Xavier," President Shaw hissed, leaning over him with his teeth gleaming in the cold hospital light. "Like any proper phoenix, you were engulfed in flames, then rose from the ashes. And now? Now just see if I grant you the mercy of letting you die." He slapped a hand against Charles's chest, hard enough to knock loose a sob, then stalked from the room, leaving him alone.

He'd left something, two things, against Charles's chest – Charles caught them instictively as they tumbled to his lap. A silver coin and a tattered, bloodstained feather.

***

"You're going to have to actually talk, kid," Logan said, not unkindly, as they readied him for the Crowning. "Caesar's a friend and he knows what not to ask, but you gotta give him something to work with."

Charles didn't look up, staring dully at his feet as Oliver put the finishing touches on his outfit – all white, but for the pair of clean, new phoenix feathers pinned to his breast. Oliver had said something about purity and mourning, when he showed him the design. Charles neither remembered nor cared.

"I'll be in the audience," Logan continued. "You can just look at me. Or your family – your stepdad and brother are supposed to come."

"Don't let them near me," Charles said without heat. He couldn't face… anything, from them. Grief, anger, welcome – any attempt at either violence or affection would be equally intolerable.

And then there was the issue of Charles's mother. She'd been taken in for questioning, apparently, a few days into the Games – right around the time the Gamemakers figured out what Charles was up to, he supposed. No one had heard from her since. So he'd almost certainly killed his mother along with his sister, whether Kurt and Cain knew it yet or not.

Logan sighed and put his hands on Charles's shoulders. "Listen to me, Chuck. You've got to pull it together."

"Why?" Still he didn't look up.

Logan paused for a long moment, then said, "You know what, you're right. Stay exactly the way you are. Spineless. Defeated. That way President Shaw knows you're not a threat anymore."

Despite himself, Charles looked up at last, and saw something – kinship, demand, anger – in Logan's eyes that reminded him, for just a moment, of Erik. It hurt like blood returning to a frozen limb.

"It's time," Oliver said, and ushered him out onto the stage.

 

Charles had forgotten there would be recap footage.

Most of what had happened since he woke up in a hospital room with President Shaw had felt surreal, but watching himself on camera took the sensation to a new level. Raven's name was drawn at the Reaping and Charles volunteered to go with her, and a cool, crisp female narrator spun the "first brother-and-sister team" angle with just as much jarring good cheer as Effie Trinket had at the time. Charles couldn't look away from Raven, tear-streaked and clinging to his hand on the stage.

The voiceover credited Charles with spearheading "the largest tribute alliance in Mutant Games history" as the video showed clips from the Arena, and Charles felt his fists clench in his lap, because there wasn't a single word about _why._ Every death was touched on; little Jubilee, Moira, Frost (including Erik comforting him with sparkling dust scattered at their feet), Ororo ("deserving special attention as the only fatality that can be unequivocally attributed to this year's victor").

By the time they got to Sebastian and Raven, Charles had to hold his breath to keep from vomiting. He couldn't bear to look at the screen, and yet could not look away. Watching Sebastian's death from the outside was almost anticlimactic, showing no sign of the emotional hurricane Charles had felt – Sebastian simply froze in place, and stayed there, until he fell over dead.

And then Raven…

He knew people all over the country were watching his expression, but it was all he could do not to launch himself screaming at the screen. If burying his face in his knees could keep him silent, then that was the best he could do.

"Charles." Erik's voice made his head snap up. The footage was filmed from overhead, fire encircling himself and Erik at the bottom of the cliff they'd tried to climb. After Charles had hit his head… _I don't remember this._ Didn't remember Erik frantically feeling his throat for a pulse, didn't remember half-waking and Erik, looking at the fire, knowing what would happen now, soothing him back to unconsciousness. "It's all right, Charles. Rest. It's all right."

Didn't remember Erik kissing him and flipping off the camera just before he lost consciousness.

A good many in the audience, Charles noticed, seemed to be surprised by that part, too – gasps and choked laughter echoed around him. Had they not shown that part before? Who had decided to show it now?

The lights were coming back on, dazzling his eyes. He wiped at tears he didn't remember shedding, and felt… awake, for the first time since the Arena. It wasn't a good or happy feeling, but he clung to it nonetheless.

"The relationship between you and Erik," Caesar Flickerman was saying gently. "It was amazing to witness. That kind of connection and trust is rare in the Arena. How did it feel to wake up and realize Erik had given his life for you?"

_He didn't,_ Charles wanted to scream. _That was the entire point, don't you understand? He didn't give his life, he didn't surrender. He was_ killed. Charles took a steadying breath, sought Logan's eyes in the audience. "I can't waste it," he said at last. "He made sure I would live. I can't waste what he gave me."

 

Standing for the Crowning was something of a trial; the cybernetic implants that allowed Charles's spinal cord to operate below his waist was still integrating into his system, and being on his feet for long periods made him sore and wobbly. He suspected that President Shaw knew it, judging by the unusually drawn-out speech he gave before finally reaching for the gleaming gold, laurel-shaped crown.

This was the moment Erik had waited for, dreamed of – the moment he would have attacked Shaw, murdered him on live national broadcast just as Shaw had helped murder so many others. Erik would certainly have died in the doing of it – in fact he would have been lucky to even succeed before the Peacekeepers took him out – but he would have made his point, in a way neither the Capitol nor the audience could ignore. 

The crown settled onto Charles's head, and Erik's coin was cold in his palm, digging into the skin as he tighened his fist white-knuckled around it.

Erik had given up this moment, had chosen Charles's way instead. Stopped playing the Game. _I can't waste what he gave me._

_I have to spend it more wisely than this._

His grip on the coin eased, just a bit.

"Congratulations on your victory, little phoenix," President Shaw said, vicious satisfaction in the curl of his smile, and tapped idly at the feathers on Charles's chest. "Your district must be very proud of you."

Charles kept his eyes straight ahead, and replied, just low enough to make Shaw doubt what he heard, "Yes. They will be."


	25. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Obviously this sets up a sequel, which, if it ever exists, would be titled _Phoenix Fire._ Feel free to share your feelings and expectations about the idea, but please don't bug me to write it; I have no idea when or whether it will happen!

Logan peered through the glass, squinting to make out forms on tables in the long, dark room beyond. "Any of them wake up yet?"

"Not yet," Oliver said, adjusting his jacket in his reflection. Stylists. Logan rolled his eyes. "They should start to wake soon, though. All the most critical medical fixes are complete."

"For those who could be fixed at all." No matter how fast they were with the hovercrafts, no many how many miracle drugs the medics had at hand, not everyone could be saved. How did you put a shattered diamond back together, for instance, or rebuild acid-melted organs? "Did Hank's fur grow back?"

"Yep. Which settles the question – they definitely still have their mutations."

"'Course they do," Logan grunted. "No one thinks to neutralize the dead. Can't even really neutralize the living, according to ol' Plutarch." He eyed the cigar in his fingers, and grinned as Oliver wrinkled his nose and waved away smoke. "These things might not kill me after all if we can get my healing factor up and running again. It's going to be a lot to ask of the kid, though, giving up his spinal repairs to get his telepathy back."

"Can't be helped," Oliver sighed. "The nerve-bonding serum has a natural suppressant effect, even without the other measures." He tapped thoughtfully at a screen below the observation window. "So physically our Phoenix is recovering. How's he holding up mentally?"

Logan grunted again, taking a drag from the cigar. "Not well. Got into my liquor cabinet last night. And the night before."

"We can't tell him yet, Logan. I know it's rough on him but—"

"I know. Shaw needs to think he's broken."

Oliver let out a long sigh. "Is he right, to think that?"

Logan grinned around the cigar. "The Capitol got their phoenix, all right – and they still ain't learned not to cook up dangerous animals that have nothing left to fear. If President Shaw thinks a broken Charles Xavier is _less_ of a threat to him, he'll learn different soon enough."

On the other side of the glass, Erik Lehnsherr stirred and opened his eyes.


End file.
